


Chasing Ghosts

by mj4x



Category: Captain America (Movies), Deadpool (2016), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blood and Violence, Captain America: The Winter Soldier Spoilers, Deadpool (2016) Spoilers, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Language, F/M, Frank Castle (Punisher) mentioned, Humor, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Reader is a badass mercenary, References to Drugs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-21
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2018-11-17 02:45:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 30,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11266314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mj4x/pseuds/mj4x
Summary: You're one of the two best gun for hire there is in the Big Apple. The other is your partner.After a couple of years of laying low and taking shitty jobs, a familiar acquaintance asks for your services wiping out someone who's already a ghost.You accept.





	1. Chapter 1

“Sir, uh, before you do anything to him, do you mind if I get a big tip?”

“Jeremy, is it?”

Here you are once again: Wade pointing a gun at the dude (Merchant?) who owns the house you just broke in, you leaning against the wall, checking your e-mails on your phone as you chew your favorite gum, and the actual target at the door, a pizza delivery kid. Average Wednesday night.

“That is a no go on the tiperoo Jer. I’m not here for him.” Wade says, as he pulls one of the oh so familiar gold cards with Jeremy’s name engraved on it out of his back pocket. He holds it between his index and middle finger in front of Jeremy’s face, as he slowly shifts the gun’s aim so now it rests on the kid, “I’m here for you.”

Jeremy’s face changes immediately from relief and even smugness, to fear and you swear he just shat himself a little bit. Yeah, Wade has that effect on people.

“Okay, wow, dodged a big-time bullet on that one.”

As Merchant speaks up, Wade’s annoyance is obvious. Before you can reach them though, the merc has already smashed the butt of his gun onto the guy’s forehead. In two strides, you’re grabbing Merchant’s shoulder, nails digging into the white fabric of his shirt, and forcing him to sit on the shitty chair behind him.

“Shut the fuck up.” You sneer on Merchant’s ear, just barely above a whisper. He has one hand on his forehead, the other in the air in front of him, trying to prevent any more damage to his face. He flinches slightly at your words, your tone, and mostly at the goosebumps that spread throughout his body as your breath touches his skin.

You adjust the gun on your underarm holster and settle against the wall. Wade has, once again, his gun aimed against the guy’s head.

“I will shoot your fucking cat!” Wade shouts, eyes locked with Merchant’s. His gaze brakes when he feels your wide eyes boring into him across the room, your brows furrowed and jaw clenched. You like cats. He replies with an apologetic shrug and turns his attention back to the panicking man below him.

“I don’t really know what that means. I don’t have a cat.” Merchant’s hands are in the air, eyes looking into Wade’s towering form.

“Then whose kitty litter did I just shit in?”

You lift your head from your phone and lock eyes with Wade, the bubble you had just blown popping. He gives you a slight nod of his head and, in understanding, you slide your phone into the back pocket of your jeans and move. Slipping past the whole scene, you find yourself in the bathroom. It’s really fucking small, really fucking messy and you’re not quite sure how in the hell you and Wade managed to sneak in through the tiny window. Its, white? no, yellow-ish tile floor is awfully dirty, hairs and piss all around the toilet. The toilet itself looks so fucking nasty you don’t even venture near it. The sink and the shower look similarly disgusting, minus the piss, surprisingly.

As you crouch down near the ‘kitty litter’, the smell hits you and you barely suppress a gag. _Fucking Wade and his fucking jokes._ His little ‘prank’ consisted of 10 minutes of you two hissing at each other about whether or not he was actually going to shit in this guy’s cat’s litter, while the guy himself wanked one in his bedroom, completely unaware of the situation. When he moved to the living room, you and Wade had to shut up, and the next 25 minutes were spent with him crouched above the kitty litter box, actually shitting. **with you. in the bathroom**. Sure, you’re both more than past those ‘formalities’, but still. AND you were right, and he shouldn’t have done it, because he shat in a huge bag of **_CRYSTAL_** **_METH_**.

You bring your clothed arm to your nose, inhaling the characteristic smell of your leather jacket and keep it there while your other hand starts rummaging through the small cabinets for something to remove Wade’s turd with. After a minute of finding only cans of cheap aftershave and hair gel, you settle it by emptying the trashcan on the floor and using its plastic bag to pick up the huge crap from the middle of the white, shimmering crystals. _Just like the owner picking their dog’s shit off the sidewalk_. You snicker at your own joke and get up. Jeremy’s whimpers and Wade’s voice echo through the walls, so you ditch the plastic bag with the turd in the sink and head back towards the living room.

Jeremy is pinned against the wall by Wade’s bulky form, and he’s whispering something you aren’t able to hear. Merchant is observing cowardly from his seat in the chair, but he tenses as he sees you heading towards him.

You crouch between his legs and pull up the bag, placing it on his crotch, “Is this meth?”

“Uh-“ He swallows hard, before shaking his head, “Uhnn, no…”

You snort and glance over at Wade, who’s now busy taking polaroid photos of a frightened Jeremy holding the pizza box, _I’M SORRY!!_ written on it.

“Don’t lie to me a-hole.” You slide your precious bayonet knife out of its holster on your thigh, admiring the light reflecting off its blade. Merchant’s breathing becomes erratic as the blade slides up his leg. It finally rests at the bulge on his jeans and you apply pressure, “Now, I’ll ask again. Is this meth?”

“Y-yes.”

You roll your eyes as you get up, flipping your knife in the air and holstering it, “Was it really that hard? Jeez.”

Merchant sighs, a mix of relief and confusion crossing his features. You ignore him, picking up the plastic bag from his lap and heading towards the door, where Wade is pushing Jeremy out.

He closes it before you can leave and turns to you grinning, “So, what did I miss?”

“Nothing, let’s go.” You try to push past him but he shoves you back again.

“Was the kitty litter not kitty litter?”

“Yes. No? It _is_ meth, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Is it good?”

“What? I don’t fucking know Wade, I don’t do meth!”

“Lemme try it.”

“Stop. Let’s go, I’m gonna be late.”

“Lemme try it.”

“Are you serious?”

“Lemme try it.”

You glare at him for 10 seconds, but that knowing smirk never leaves his face, so you just open the bag and allow him to take a few crystals into the palm of his hand. He quickly throws a few in his mouth and grimaces as their acid taste seeps into his tongue.

“Eww, what the fuck?! Tastes like shit!” Wade screams, eyebrows frowning and tongue sticking out like a little kid.

“Number one, that’s not how you take meth, you moron.” You tell him, as you slap the remaining pebbles out of his hand.

“I-mm thoug’- nh-ya didn’ do m-meth?” Wade counters as he keeps his tongue out, running the sleeve of his jacket over it.

“I don’t. And two, it’s pretty accurate that you think it tastes like shit, considering _your_ shit was in that bag just a few minutes ago.” You say, trying to hold in a laugh, even though a snort manages to escape your grasp.

Wade pauses and looks at you wide-eyed, “You did not.”

Laughing, you press your finger against his chest and push it, causing his dumbfounded self to stumble backwards and out of the way, “Hey, you were the one who wanted to try it, don’t blame this on me!”

The doorknob twists and you open the door, heading outside. You stop though, and turn back, looking into Merchant’s eyes, who keep locked on both you and Wade.

You make a little bow, smirking at the guy, “Thank you for your hospitality.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys like it, I'm posting the next chapter soon. Feedback is appreciated!


	2. Chapter 2

Wade shouts your name as you head down the building’s corridor, but you keep walking, knowing he’ll catch up eventually.

He finally does and grabs your arm, pulling you to a stop in front of him, “And where do you think you’re going with that, missy?” He points at the bag, and tries to snatch it, your wrist flicking just in time for him to grab a huff of air, “Also, by the way, I can’t believe I legit just ate my shit because of you.” He adds with a slight pout that plumps his lips.

You scoff and look away, biting your bottom lip in an attempt to hide the smile that plays at your features. It’s impossible to be serious around Wade, and that’s why you love to be around him.

“It’s my fucking birthday, Wade, I can do whatever I want, remember?” You start heading towards the exit once again with Wade at your side. “And this?” You jiggle the bag in your hand and smile, amused by the sound it causes, “I’ll find a way to sell it, make us a few hundreds. Weasel can hook us up with someone right?”

As you reach the building’s exit, Wade opens the door and you both step out into the night. A slightly cold breeze is blowing, so you cross your arms over your chest, clutching your leather jacket closer to yourself. The streets are desert as usual, its only living inhabitants being a few stray cats and the occasional homeless sitting in the sidewalk. You both walk further ahead, to where the area is illuminated by the orangey streetlamps and stop, you turning to Wade, balancing your weight on your heels.

“So, you’re gonna meet up with the chick, right? Tell her her stalker boyfriend is gone?”

“Yeah, he’s just a kid though. Hopefully he learned his lesson.” Wade replies with a smirk, his head slightly tilted.

“Alright, I’ll meet you back at Margaret’s.”

You turn to leave, yet the merc grabs your wrist and pulls you back to his front.

You roll your eyes, the corner of your mouth twitching up, “What?”

“Can you make it by yourself? I mean, I know you can, but I uh- that guy-” He points to a random smoking guy, leaning against a building’s wall at the end of the street, “-looks like he really needs to murder you, and, or! me, so I th-”

“Wade.” You interrupt him, swiftly grabbing your hunting knife off its place on your belt and flip it quickly just in front of his face. The blade slides against your fingers for a few seconds almost soothingly, and finally, you catch the handle, “I got my babies with me, I can handle myself.”

Wade chuckles, somehow breathless. His eyes are wide, mouth forming an ‘o’ and he has his hands up, “Woah, alrighty then!”

“Alrighty.” You reply cheekily, your eyes narrowed and a smirk on your lips. Holstering your knife, you turn to leave once again, but Wade grabs your wrist one more time.

“Oh my god, Wade! Wha-”

He places his hands on your hips and hastily brings you flush against his chest. The bag drops at your feet as your hands fly to his neck so you steady yourself and you look at him through your eyelashes. Wade’s got that trademark look on his face, like he’s planning something, grinning like a madman.

“They grow up so fast! You know, I got your birthday present right here.”

Your fingers run across his hair, occasionally brushing over the fluffy collar of his jacket, “Hmm yeah? What can possibly be so small for you to carry so easily?”

“Ooh you’re soo funny, aren’t yoou?” Wade says, dragging his words. His hands are now roaming your bare back, having sneaked under both your shirt and jacket, “Papa Frank must be proud, uh?”

Wade _loves_ to bring up **_Frank Castle_** and watch how you react, especially after the fuss on the news lately. The man took you in and raised you, ever since your parents became his targets and he, well, he put them down. They were deeply involved in the mob, hung around awful people, did horrible things. Meanwhile you’d be by yourself, stealing shit you needed and shit you didn’t, trying to live as a kid without their parents. They deserved what they got. _Probably._

Frank takes the law into his own hands. _The Punisher_ as the people call him _._ He has his own _style_ : uses weapons and firearms to do right by others. Taught you to do the same. However, to say he wasn’t happy when you told him you were putting your skills to use, is an understatement. He wanted a _normal_ life for you, like he wanted for his own kids and for himself even. You two never really talked about his family, because it usually ended up with Frank storming out of the house, and you alone, feeling like shit for even approaching the subject. You knew he had lost his wife, daughter and son to a crime family, about a year before you two met. He had found a new family in you however.

Regardless of being serious and somewhat stern, Frank Castle was still caring when it came to you. He taught you everything you know, put up with your teenage dramas, and took care of you. He is the only family you have besides Wade, and you and Wade… It’s complicated.

You scoff and unlock your gaze from his. Your hands drop and you step backwards, feeling the warmth of Wade’s hands disappear from your back. You bend down and snatch the bag from the sidewalk. Meanwhile, Wade observes you, smirk on his lips because he knows he has struck a nerve. Now he’s just waiting for your protectiveness over Frank to come through.

“Fuck you, Wade.” You say nonchalantly, straightening up again and turning to head up the street.

“Ah, there she is!” He bites his bottom lip, the corners of his mouth lifting as he walks backwards.

You turn around, mimicking him and flash your middle finger and a wink. His laugh echoes through the street as you stuff your hands in the pockets of your leather jacket and make your way over to Sister Margaret’s, a smile playing at your own lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter, but don't worry, I have more on the way ehe


	3. Chapter 3

Sister Margaret’s is the dispatch center for mercenaries like you and Wade. It’s located in a sketchy neighborhood and attended by sketchy people, but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

As you arrive to the front of the decaying building, several mercs walk by, either coming or going. They nod, and you respond with a two finger salute.

From the outside, you can hear the faint melody of _Howlin’ for you_ by The Black Keys playing inside. Pushing the door open, you walk into the place and let it bounce back close. The grim smell of alcohol and sweat assaults your nose immediately as you approach the main lounge area. Its grey walls are covered in posters and photos, and there are several bottles resting on the high windowsills. The blue-ish dim lighting of the place is often erupted by the smoke coming from the lit cigarettes. Several chairs and tables, all occupied, are scattered around the pool table as a few mercs play, the ends of their cues clashing against the balls from time to time. At the bar are seated different people, some chatting, other smoking, as Weasel serves them their drinks.

You approach the bar and sit in one of the stools, placing the bag of meth in front of you. Weasel is slightly to your left, still serving the same group as before. Behind him there are multiple rows of various colored drinks stored inside glass cabinets. Tucked in the cabinets’ frames are newspaper cut outs of certain people or articles and a few different photos, amongst them a polaroid of you and Wade in Manhattan. He has his arm across your shoulders, and his other one is raised, a toy mimicking the Statue of Liberty’s torch in his hand. You have your left arm around his waist and your right hand is stuffed in the pocket of your _I_ _❤_ _NY_ hoodie. Behind you two, the lit up screens of Time Square and the moving mass of people in the street are frozen in time, just like the huge childish grins plastered on your and Wade’s face.

Above the cabinets is the famous Dead Pool. Sister Margaret’s Dead Pool consists of a terribly morbid game in which the players pick and bet on someone they think will die in the upcoming few days. Celebrities, heroes, average people; anyone really. Focusing on it, you run your eyes through it and spot **_WEASEL | 200$ | WILSON, W | 39_** amongst the list of names. You snicker and hope you’re there to see Wade’s reaction when he finds out. The smile on your lips falters though, when you catch your name and **_25_** next to **_TAD | 315$_**. _That motherfucker!_ Running your eyes through the dispersed people around the place, you don’t find the asshole, but you’re damn sure this has earned him one square in the jaw next time you lay eyes on him.

Weasel hands a cup to the waitress over your shoulder and then turns to you, running a hand through his blonde hair, “Oh no. You.”

You put a hand over your heart, faking hurt, “Ouch. Hello to you too, Weas!”

“Don’t.” Sighing, he places both hands in the counter, “I shouldn’t even let you in here after what you did last time.”

‘Last time’, also known as the night, about a week ago, you caused mayhem at the bar.

 

_6 days ago_

You’re sitting on the couch of your living room, your elbows propped on your knees. It’s late afternoon but the blinds are down, the glow coming from the TV illuminating your face. _**The People vs Frank Castle.** _

“Mr. Castle, you’ve been charged with multiple capital crimes. Been called a killer, incapable of empathy or remorse.” Matt Murdock, one of his attorneys, stands in front of Frank, holding his cane with both his hands.

“Yeah, so I hear.”

The trial proceeds relatively uneventful, but as soon as Murdock mentions Frank’s family, that he’s ‘crazy’ and needs help, you see his jaw clench, his eyes light up with anger and you know he’ll flip out anytime now.

“I’m not crazy. Okay? I know what I did. I know who I am and I do _not_ need your help.” He says, a severe yet sincere expression on his face. His voice raises in tone as he proceeds talking, “…any scumbag, any lowlife, any maggot piece of shit I put down I did it because I _liked_ it!” He’s infuriated, screaming and shouting from the witness stand. “Hell, I loved it! I’m itching to do it again!”

The spectators on the right are standing up and backing away in fear, while the ones on the left are cheering, bouncing their signs up and down.

“You gon’ send me to a nuthouse? Some doctor, they’re gonna get me to stop me from doing what I wanna do?! Well that ain’t happening! Not on my watch!”

The judge has her eyes wide, silently asking the security to restrain him.

Frank gets up and the guards start to move towards him, “You people, you call me the Punisher, ain’t that right?! The big bad Punisher! WELL HERE I AM!” The guard puts him on a choke hold and heads towards the exit. “And anybody who came here today to hear me whine, to hear me beg?! Well you can kiss my ass!”

Frank is still spouting insults while his attorneys, a short blonde man, Franklin Nelson, and the tall brunette from before, Matthew Murdock, stand helpless at their desk. The judge is trying to calm the huge mass of agitated people in the room, but it’s proving to be useless.

“I’m guilty, you hear me?! I’m guilty! I’m guilty!” He continues to struggle in the guards’ hold, as they push him out of the door, “I’ll kill every single one of ‘em! I’ll kill every singl-”

His screams echo through your apartment after the transmission is cut, a sequence of commercials starting right after. You have your hands over your mouth and your eyes are blurry because of the unshed tears. Leaning back on your couch, you release a shaky breath and close your eyes. As your eyelids press together, the tears escape and run down your temples. Your heart is thumbing in your chest, aggravating the pit in your stomach.

‘How did Frank get caught? Shit.’ You open your eyes and lean on your knees again, ‘Frank’s in jail and there’s nothing I can do about it.’ Tears start prickling in your eyes again, ‘Okay, no. Happy thoughts, happy thoughts. Stay positive, just like Wade.’ You inhale deeply and run both hands over your face. ‘Alright. Frank’s got it. He’s been in worse situations, right? Yeah. No. Probably? Okay, that dude with the red horns might help him. They’re friends, I think. I hope.’

_Fuck._

Standing up, you grab your jacket and head out the door.

 

When you get to Sister Margaret’s, you sit in your usual spot at the counter. The bar’s ambiance is still the same since yesterday: mercs and their companions drinking, smoking, playing.

Weasel greets you as soon as he spots you, but when you don’t answer with your usual joviality he stops in front of you, on the other side of the counter, and crosses his arms, “What happened?”

“Get me a bottle of whiskey, Weas.” You remove your sunglasses and place them over the counter, where you know they won’t get broken. Luckily, your eyes are no longer red and puffy, or else you’d have Weasel even more up your ass.

He looks you over, eyes settling on your face, “Yeah, I don’t think that’s a good idea… Does Wade know you’re here?”

You scoff and pointedly look into his eyes, “I don’t fucking need Wade’s permission to get shitfaced. In fact, I don’t need Wade’s permission to do jack shit so give me the fucking bottle.” You take a few dollar bills out of your pocket and place them on the counter with a thud, earning a couple side glances from the others around you, “Please.”

Weasel frowns at you, reluctance written all over his face. He still abides though, not saying a word as he takes a bottle of Jack Daniels and a glass from under the counter and places them in front of you.

In a couple hours, you’ve downed the whole bottle. Not having much in your stomach allowed the alcohol to seep into your system easier, so now you can barely stand, your head is pounding and your vision is fuzzy. But at least the whiskey did its job and Frank’s situation is the last thing on your mind. Or, you’re numb to it. Good either way.

With difficulty, you get up and go to the bathroom. Once coming out, you feel slightly better, or at least slightly less drunk. _Slightly._

You then decide you want to play pool. Around the table is a group of 5 guys you’ve never seen here before, however, you approach them anyways ‘cause why the fuck not? Weasel is eyeing you warily though, you can feel his gaze on the back of your head.

“Can I join you, boys?” You say, as you pick a cue from the stand.

They look between each other, somewhat confused, until one of them speaks up, checking you out shamelessly, “Hell yeah.”

The next hour or so goes by with you playing pool with those guys, laughing dumbly at stupid shit they say, and mostly being undressed by their gazes.

It’s your turn, so you lean over the table, trying to reach the white ball you have to send against the black one so you win the game. You’re aiming the cue and preparing to take the shot, when you feel a hand slide down your partially clothed back, now that you have ditched your jacket. Looking over your shoulder, you see that indeed, one of the guys has decided to get a little too close.

You straighten up and push his lingering hand away with your cue. Even though you keep the corner of your mouth lifted, your voice is even and stern, “Keep your hands to yourself, blondie.”

The man doesn’t seem to understand though, because as soon as you bend over one more time, he smacks your ass, a shit eating grin on his lips.

Closing your eyes, you sigh, as you run your tongue over your front teeth and put down the cue before turning around, “Did you just fucking slap my ass?”

Everyone at the bar has gone quiet. You notice Jak, Reeves, Sean, and a few other familiar mercs, glancing at you, jaws clenched awaiting your sign so they can help you beat the shit out of this guy and his group. You however, shake your head lightly, silently telling them ‘I got this’.

“You betcha.” The guy says, shortening the distance between you two. He places one hand on your hip, the other running through his dirty blonde hair.

Sighing, you glance around the room one more time, and snicker, “You know, I’m pretty sure I told you-” You bring your knee to his crotch and push him away. Swiftly, you snatch your bayonet knife from its holster on your thigh and bring it to his throat, pinning him against the wall. Your face is millimeters away from his, your breath hitting the skin of his cheek, “-to not fucking touch me.”

As soon as the guys from his group so much as touched their weapons, a chain of shots echoed through the bar. After that, everything turned into a pandemonium of screams, slashes and guns blazing.

It all ended after about 10 minutes, with most of the mercs leaving the bar, the 5 bloody, shot and beaten guys being thrown out the door, and you having a breakdown, seated on top of a mess of broken furniture and glass, sobbing into your hands, one still holding the bloodied bayonet.

Eventually, Wade returned from the job he was taking (which you assume was Weasel’s doing, since you spotted him fiddling with his phone a few minutes before), storming inside the bar only to find you seating in a stool with puffy, red eyes, smudged make up, drops of someone’s blood sprinkled across your chest and a bottle of water on your hand.

He approaches quickly and sits next to you, cupping your face in his hands, “Hey,” he says softly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, “What happened?”

You place your hand on top of his and give him a sad smile, feeling the tears swell up in your eyes, “Hey…”

 

 

Folding your arms, you turn your gaze to the wooden counter in front of you in shame, the smile on your lips faltering, “Yeah… Sorry about that, Weas. I should’ve handled the situation differently.”

“Yeah, yeah, you don’t say.” He waves a hand dismissively and smirks, adjusting the glasses on his nose right after, “What can I get you, princess?”

“Someone to sell this to.” You jiggle the bag on the table, “And a shot of uh- whatever you want, really.”

“Ookay,” A shot glass is taken from under the counter, and Weasel begins pouring the crimson liquid of grenadine into it, “So, is that what I think it is?” He points at the bag with his index finger, the others still curled around the bottle.

“I don’t know. What do you think it is?” You grin, drumming your fingers to the song’s rhythm.

Whilst screwing the cap back on the bottle, Weasel mouths _‘Meth?’_ to you. As you nod, he drops his head, shaking it. He grunts and turns around, fetching a bottle of liquor, “You know I’ll want a cut, right?”

You gaze at him warily, crossing your legs on the high stool, “Suuure. 10 percent.”

The colorless liquid pours on the glass flawlessly, keeping the red grenadine intact. Weasel glances at you, before returning the bottle to its place in the cabinet, “15.”

Arching a brow, you let out a squeak of disbelief. You narrow your eyes, a smug grin plastered on your lips, “13 percent, _Jack_.”

Weasel who’s bent down behind the counter, rises swiftly with a bottle of blue curaçao in hand, glaring at you through his glasses, “Don’t call me that; and 15 percent.”

Pausing, you observe the way the blue hued liquid travels down the spoon’s round form, settling on top of the colorless one. As Weasel screws the cap, an expectant look crosses his features. You look up at him again, leaning forward in your seat, “13 percent and I won’t kick your ass.”

Sighing, he gives in, “Fine.” His right hand carefully picks up the full shot glass and places it in front of you, while the other takes the meth bag and puts it somewhere on the ground behind the counter. The three layers on the glass are now more perceptible: the bottom filled with the red grenadine, the middle being a transparent liquor, and on top, the electric blue of the curaçao stands out, “A Captain America. I know how much you love the guy so, here.” He pushes the glass slightly towards you and wipes his hands on a rag, a lopsided grin on his lips, “Happy birthday by the way.”

You admit, the last hero you ever expected to like as much as you do is Captain America. You two are _so_ different in so many aspects, from morals to ideals and methods, yet you sympathize with him. I mean, how could you not? Ever since the Battle of New York a couple of years ago, Steve Rogers has been constantly on TV, gained such popularity he doesn’t even know how to deal with it. Always avoiding journalists, reporters, paparazzi as much as possible, however they always manage to snap a picture of him, usually a cap shadowing most of his face. He’s truly a _man out of time_ as the media put him.

You bite your bottom lip to stop the huge smile threatening to take over your face. Reaching over the counter, you punch Weasel’s arm lightly, “Thanks Weas.” 

As you down the shot, you hear a few mercs acknowledge someone who just came in.

“Wade Wilson, patron saint of the pitiful.” Weasel greets, his arms wide open, “What can I do for you?”

Wade leans on the counter, “I’d love a blowjob.”

You raise an eyebrow, the corner of your mouth lifting slightly, as you stare at Wade, who in return keeps his gaze forward, as if he isn’t taunting you.

“Oh god, me too.” Weasel says with an exasperated sigh.

“The drink, moose knuckle. But first…”

Wade proceeds to hand Weasel the golden card with Jeremy’s name on it. They keep talking about the kid, and eventually the conversation lands on Wade’s time in the Special Forces. You turn in your seat, so now you’re facing the room with your elbows propped on the counter behind you, listening to them talk, enjoying the mood and their company.

After a bit, you hear Weasel placing the shot glass on the wooden surface and glance behind your shoulder, your eyes landing on the cracked clock hanging on the wall: **_10.14 p.m._**

_Aw, shit._

“Kelly, Kelly, Kelly…” Wade calls catching the waitress’ attention. He places the shot glass in the tray she’s holding and continues, “Take that over to Buck please and tell him it’s from Boothe. Little foreplay.”

You slump in your seat and launch forward, picking the glass carefully but swiftly with your thumb and your ring finger, “Oh no, you don’t. Just a sec, Kelly.” You say with an apologetic smile, to which she nods and moves away. Placing the shot back on the counter, you glare at Wade through narrowed eyes, “I know what you’re doing, and you’re an asshole for it. But I-uh-” Your expression softens and your brows furrow, “I’m really fucking late to meet Frank, I need to leave like _now_ , and I just want to know if I’ll be seeing you later?” You spill quickly, biting your bottom lip nervously afterwards, as you shift from one foot to the other.

Wade keeps his chilled posture as always, remaining seated even though you’re up, so his eyes remain on the same level as yours. “Yeah, you’ll be seeing me later. Your house or mine?”

“Your choice, Wilson.”

“Yours then. I wanna see how Chip’s doing.” He smiles cheekily.

Chip is your cat. Your yellow eyed, grey cat. The cat you’re pretty sure Wade stole from someone’s house.

 

One night, you returned to your apartment after a job, expecting to find Wade sprawled on your couch watching TV, head laying on the armrest over his left arm, one leg stretched out, the other draped over the couch’s back, as usual. You did find him exactly like that, except there was also a small ball of grey fluff on his lap, the merc’s right hand softly smoothing the hair on the kitty’s head.

_“Oh my god, Wade! It’s adorable!” You squeal from your apartment’s entrance/living room, tossing your keys and bag on the table nearby. Rushing to the couch, you flop between Wade’s legs, bending over to take a look at the tiny animal. Your hand finds its way onto the cat’s neck and you scratch gently, earning a purr, “Where did you get it? Can I keep it, please?” You pout._

_“It’s a he, and yes you can keep him, I got him for you.” Wade tells you, smiling genuinely._

_“Thank you, Wade.” You reach over his torso, paying attention to the kitty on his lap, and throw your arms around his neck._

_“Under one condition.” He mumbles in your hair, mischievousness evident in his tone._

_Pulling back, you sit on your heels and narrow your eyes, “I fucking knew it. What is it?”_

_“I get to name him.” He says simply, crossing both his arms behind his head._

_“Shoot.”_

_“Chimichanga.”_

_“I’m not naming my cat Chimichanga.”_

_“Hey, I got him for you!”_

_You sigh heavily, rubbing a hand down your face, “Choose another name, Wade, please!”_

_“You promise you’ll accept whatever I say?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Pinky promise?” He raises his hand, all fingers curved except his pinky._

_Bringing your right hand from its place in your lap, you curl your pinky around Wade’s, “Pinky promise.”_

_As soon as the words exit your mouth, the impish look that crosses his features has you scolding yourself for agreeing to this._

_“Chipotle. Chip for short.”_

“Fine, my place then.” Wade hands the blowjob shot to the waitress, as you tap your fingers on the counter to get Weasel’s attention, “How much do I owe you?”

“Nada. It’s on the house for the birthday girl.” He smiles sweetly, running a rag over a glass’s surface.

Buck’s heavy steps and voice evolve into a mix of screams and furniture breaking, causing you to raise your voice, “Thank you! Bye-bye Weas, I’ll see you soon!” You turn to Wade, now fully mesmerized in the fight unfolding just a few meters away, “And I’ll be seeing you later!”

He turns his attention to you and smiles honestly, “Good luck!”

You kiss his cheek in thanks and he mimics the gesture on your forehead, poking your ass when you turn to leave.

Ducking, you dodge a flying bottle and proceed to hop over Boothe, who’s now on the floor, blood running from his nose to his mouth. The noise dies down after the sound of a fist connecting to a jaw is heard again.

Just as you pull the door open and step into the street, Weasel’s voice echoes as do several whines right after, “Nobody wins today! Nice try Wade.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter wasn’t too big, I just couldn’t seem to find a good stopping point. Also, english is not my native language so if you find anything spelled wrong or a typo, please let me know. I always read each chapter a thousand times before posting but I might miss something! Hope you guys liked it and thank you so much for the feedback!


	4. Chapter 4

Dozing on and off, head leaning back on the seat, both legs stretched out and arms crossed tightly around the bag on your lap, is how your one hour ride in the New York subway goes. The orange and yellow seats stretch along the carriage above the dark colored floor as the dispersed metal poles reflect the dim lightning of the place. Echoing through the walls there’s the sound of the engine working and the occasional screech outside. The constant shakes of the train lulled you to sleep, however an especially harsh one now awakes you rather hastily.

_“The next stop is: 50th St.”_

You sigh and rub your eyes, mindful of the slight make up you put on before heading out with Wade a few hours ago. It’s only Wednesday and you’ve already had to take care of about five jobs that’d been assigned over the weekend. Threatened a few guys, chopped a couple of fingers, _killed a dude_. It didn’t leave a lot of time for a good night of sleep.

The train comes to a stop at the station and as a couple of people come in, you fidget in your seat and straighten your posture.

Blinking your eyes a few times, you settle your gaze in the window across the train. The flickering lights in rhythm with the passing tunnels do little to keep you awake, your eyes beginning to droop, head tilting forward-

_“The next stop is: 34th St.”_

You jolt awake once again and glance at your phone, groaning when you check the time.

**_11.09 p.m._ **

_An hour late. Great._

You get up and head for the door, adjusting the shoulder strap of your bag on the way. As the train decreases its speed, you grab a poll nearby bracing yourself for the sudden sway of the carriage. Nerves take over your body, your leg bouncing as you wait for the doors to open.

 

As you climb the last few steps of the subway station, the slightly cold breeze of Manhattan hits your face and shakes your hair in the air. Hurriedly, you make your way through the dark streets of Hell’s Kitchen, heading for the old diner you decided to meet up with Frank at. You haven’t seen him in about 2 years, since you moved out and went on with your life. Occasional texts and phone calls have been enough, but he figured after the prison escape scandal, you were owed an explanation, and here you are: at the door of the small, old diner you two used to come to on special occasions. Birthdays, Thanks Giving, Christmas... Just a young you and Frank eating chocolate pancakes and laughing at god knows what. You sigh and smile at the memories, before pushing the glass door which opens with a _ding!_

Looking around, you see that nothing’s changed much. To your right by the door, the familiar jukebox is still there. Glancing over it, you notice that the song hits spanning from the 50’s to the 90’s are the same from which you used to choose. In the middle of the diner, the metal counter forms a U, surrounded by red stools. The booths stretching along the walls have their seats red and on top of each wooden table there’s a napkin dispenser, a menu and a few other objects. However, there’s no one around this time. Not even the staff.

You remove your hands from your pockets and walk into the diner, the rubber of your shoes squeaking on the black and white vinyl floor. The blinds on each glass window are down and only the dim kitchen light is on behind the counter.

You approach the counter, propping your elbows on it you lean forward, hoping someone in the kitchen will hear you, “Hey, is anybody in there?”

No reply.

_What the hell…_

The doorbell rings as a man walks in. You turn around swiftly, but he’s fiddling with the jukebox with his back turned to you. Turning back towards the counter, you observe him from the corner of your eye, as he reaches for change in the pocket of his long, black coat and inserts it on the machine, proceeding to take a seat on one of the booths to your left. After a few seconds, the initial beat of _Crazy_ by Patsy Cline echoes through the diner. You ghost your fingers over the grip of the gun on your under-arm holster before sliding off the stool carefully. Intending to call Frank outside, you pull your phone from the back pocket of your pants and slowly head for the door.

“He’s not coming you know.”

You stop dead in your track and turn to the man, who keeps seated with his back to you, facing forward. Reaching for your gun while keeping your distance, you slowly approach his side, “Excuse me?”

“At ease, you won’t be needing that.” He says, gesturing for the weapon in your hand.

The grip of your hand tightens, “Yeah, I’ll be the judge of that.” You reply, eyeing the man warily.

“Have a seat.” The man says, moving his head slightly to the left where the light peeking through the blind illuminates his face.

Immediately, you recognize the eye patch on his left eye amongst the dark skin of his face. Holstering your gun, you groan annoyed and flop onto the seat in front the man, “Seriously Fury?” You eye him a second time, noticing several cuts on his face and the way he’s holding his left arm closer to his body. You frown, “What happened to you?”  

He raises his arm in a dismissive manner, hissing from pain as he does so, “Don’t worry about it.”

You raise an eyebrow, but don’t pry. Glancing at the blinking light of your phone that signals a new text message, you unlock it, “What do you want? I’m expecting someone.”

**_[11.03 p.m.] Frank:_ ** _I can’t make it today, I’m sorry sweetheart. Something’s come up, I’ll explain when I get the chance. Happy birthday._

Fury sighs, “Castle’s not coming.”

You laugh humorlessly, looking up from the phone’s screen, “No shit.” You shake your head and gaze outside through a gap in the blinds for a few seconds, controlling your emotions, before turning to Nick again, “What do you want, Fury?”

“I have a job for you. An assassination to be more precise.”

“Uh yeah.” You chuckle and shake your head in disbelief, “No, seriously what do you want?”

Fury keeps his eye on you with a serious expression and winces as he reaches for the inside of his jacket, placing a folder on the table between the both of you.

You glance at the folder before locking eyes with the Director again, “Wow, you’re actually serious.” You scoff, “So, what? I’m good enough now? Because if I remember correctly you turned down my SHIELD appliance even though I aced all your fucking trials. Physical training, combat, gun practice-”

“Look, I-”

“Actually, I’m pretty sure, _you_ -” You point your index finger at the man, “- said that I had the best results since Natasha _fucking_ Romanoff! Wait, in fact, I-”

“You matched Agent Romanoff and Agent 13 more than once, I know. I was there.” Fury looks at you pointedly, a ghost of a smile on his lips, “You really do hold a grudge for that, don’t you?”

“Yes.” You cross your arms and look away from him slightly embarrassed. “You never did tell me why I didn’t become an agent. It was just Maria Hill, destroying all my 18 year old self’s hopes and dreams with a few words and her boss-woman attitude.”

Fury props his elbow on the table, “You may have passed all the tests, but you still had Frank Castle as your overseer. And lord knows, he would have my head in a spike if something happened to his little girl.”

You snort at Nick’s statement, “I would’ve made a kick ass agent. Your loss.”

“You seem to get by just fine working as a mercenary. Best in the business from what I hear, even though you’re what? 25? It’s clear you’ve been holding back though, taking smaller jobs, keeping a low profile,” His expression softens “specially since th-”

Turning your head sharply, you glare at him, “You seem to know a lot about me, Fury.”

“I know a lot about a lot of things, that’s my job. Was, at least.” He sighs heavily and looks outside through the blinds for a few seconds. He turns back to you, a defeated expression on his features, “I know what this may seem, but I wouldn’t ask this of you of all people if it wasn’t critical. _SHIELD’s been compromised_.”

As soon as the words exit his mouth, your eyes widen and you fidget in your seat uncomfortably. Lowering your voice tone you ask, “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means I can’t trust anyone. But don’t worry this diner’s been a SHIELD hideout since the 50’s. Bullet proof glass and sound proof walls. It’s just you and me right now.”

“Yeah, that’s huh-” You look around you and clear your throat, “-relieving. So,” You clasp your hands on top of the table and lean forward, “since I _am_ worthy of your trust, who am I dealing with here?”

Fury pushes the folder towards you, “An old _friend_.”

 

_Kazakhstan  
2 years ago_

The early dawn sun rays peek from behind one of the several mountains that extend along the kazakhstan countryside. The jeep’s engine rumbles as its wheels pierce through the snow-covered road.

You’re seating between two military men, in your light gray and white attire, a white painted M4 slung across your shoulder. In front of you, also seated between two men, there’s the scientist you’re escorting with the Special Forces. There are two cars driving in front of the one you’re in, and another one after. The occasional words of communication that come through the walkie talkie in the front of the jeep and the constant snoring of one of the men is the only sound that has broken the silence in the past couple hours.

_“Bravo, Charlie, Delta, hold. There’s something in the road up ahead. Alpha is investigating before we proceed. Over.”_

_“Copy that.”_

_“Copy.”_

The driver decreases the speed of the jeep as he reaches for the walkie, “Copy-”

The ear-piercing sound of an explosion and the sudden jolt startles everyone in the vehicle. You slump in your seat and push the frightened scientist behind you. Through the front window you see the first jeep of the formation toppled over in flames, a dark grey smoke surrounding it.

“Move, move!”

The men around you have exited the vehicle and are taking cover behind it and around a few boulders and trees, loading their guns and preparing themselves for whatever or whoever’s coming.

You take one of the pistols on your thigh and after checking if it’s loaded, you take the safety off and hand it to the scientist, “Stay down and stay inside! Do not leave this vehicle. Do you hear me?!” You search his eyes for understanding, but they are franticly rummaging over the inside of the car in panic. Grabbing his shoulders, you shake him lightly, “ _Vrach, ty menya ponimayesh'?_ ” _Doctor, do you understand me?_  After a few seconds he nods, and you open the door right after, stepping outside into the snow.

You run over to one of the trees surrounding the road and take cover behind it. Peeking around it, you see one of the soldiers who survived the explosion stuck under the blown-up car. The fire is approaching his already bleeding leg and the panic in his eyes can be seen a mile away as he struggles to lift the weight off him. You take a deep breath and check the magazine of the M4 you’re holding. Then, you crouch and taking small and quick steps, you start to make your way towards him.

You’re about 10 meters away from the soldier when a bulky figure emerges from the dark smoke. His messy brown hair crops at his shoulders, waving in front of his goggled covered eyes. The lower half of his face is hidden by some sort of mask. His attire consists of black combat clothes, several weapons are attached to his body, and his left arm – _Is that metal?_ – is glistening in the rising sun.

You stumble from the abrupt stop and fall on your ass. Dumbfounded, you watch as this mysterious man walks towards the trapped soldier and nonchalantly puts a bullet in his head. His head snaps to you and he reaches behind his back for a grenade launcher. Your eyes follow him as he aims at the second jeep of the formation, the one beside you. Realizing what comes next, you scramble to your feet and run.

The explosion sends you flying a few meters to your left, where you land on the snow with a grunt. Bullets and screams of pain have already started to fill the air as you try to gain your breath. You cough and wince at the pain it causes in your chest, so you claw at your jacket and successfully open it. After a minute, you’re able to sink your knees on the snow, a drop of blood that ran down your temple leaving a stark red mark on the bright white. The raging fire that begins burning inside you is enough to numb you to the snow that soaks your clothes and the throbbing pain on your side.

_Who the fuck is this guy?_

You remove your torn jacket completely, knowing this will get bad, and stand with a light grey turtleneck and a bulletproof vest of the same color on top. The weapon lying in the snow next to your jacket is long-ranged and way too big for your fighting style. You like to get up-close and personal, that’s why you have your knives and pistols.

A few meters away from you, the brunette is still fighting off the soldiers. He’s gradually approaching the car where the scientist - _his target_ \- is.

When the realization dawns on you, you dodge bullets and flying debris in order to reach the doctor, who’s now peeking at the chaos outside through a gap in the door. You’re losing your temper at what should have been a simple escorting mission and has turned into complete mayhem, so you grab the man by the collar of his jacket and pull him out of the car.

“Stay. Back.” You hiss, as you shove him behind you and take your pistol from its holster in your thigh.

Your throat tightens and knuckles turn white around the pistol as the assassin across the road snaps his attention to you. There’s a pleading soldier at his feet, whose whimpers are ignored when his throat gets slit mercilessly. The man’s head keeps turned to yours as he advances through the snow. His steps are rigid and heavy, posture stiff and determined. The blood from his last victim is still fresh on his clasped metal hand, leaving a trail of burgundy colored droplets on the white snow behind him.

You raise your pistol and set the aim right between his eyes, “Stop.”

The assassin comes to a halt at the sound of your, surprisingly, steady and strong voice. But only for a few seconds.

He starts walking again and it doesn’t look like he’s stopping this time. His strides have become longer and his shoulders seem to have squared even more than before. Now, the tiny hint of fear you had been suppressing for the past 30 minutes, comes to the surface. This guy just murdered a whole team of 20 Special Forces soldiers by himself in under 20 minutes. Not to mention the extremely strong metal arm prosthesis attached to his left side and the lethal stance he wields. And you’re alone in the kazakhstan wilderness, a frightened scientist awkwardly standing behind you, and a skilled assassin striding towards you, a few meters away from taking your life.

Hoping the panic doesn’t show in your slightly trembling hands, you cock the hammer of your pistol and shout, “Don’t _fucking_ come any closer, I swear to god I’ll shoot!”

The assassin doesn’t stop.

And you shoot.

After the echo of the shot dissipates from the air, the assassin’s heavy breathing is the only sound heard. It seems like you’ve just further angered the bull.

He viciously rips the goggles off his face, the bullet you shot sheathed in the black tinted glass that now shatters under the pressure of his metal hand. His adamant strides continue, but now, amongst the smudged black paint on his lids, his piercing blue eyes lock with yours.

_Oh fuck._

Next you know there’s a metal hand around your neck and your brain seems to go blank. You hear the metal gears on his arm turning as the man lifts you above the ground. The air quickly begins to leave your lungs and you claw at his hand, which remains unmoved. Years of training and practice work their way back into your mind, urging you to act. Instincts kick in and you begin to slam your forearm repeatedly into his own metal one with all the strength you can muster.

His expression is blank, hollow, but his blue orbs staring back at you swim in emotion. Pain, guilt, regret, loneliness...

_Maybe that’s why the goggles._

For a split second his brows furrow, eyes darting to the ground as if remembering something, _someone_ , after observing his fierce metal hand around your delicate skin. His grip falters slightly and it is more than enough for you to kick his abdomen and fall to the snow below when the assassin staggers and releases your damaged neck. Still panting with tears brimming in your eyes, you attempt to stand up, but the brunette man grabs your foot and drags you towards him.

“ _Beg!_ ” _Run!,_ your hoarse voice shouts to the hiding scientist, hoping he’ll for once, follow your orders.

The bruising grip the assassin has on your right ankle as he pulls you has you squirming and clawing at the snow that numbs your fingers as you touch it. With an exasperated scream, you manage to land a kick to his face and before you miss your chance, you turn around swiftly and pull your bayonet knife out of its holster on your leg. You slash at the man, the sharp tip of the blade ripping the fabric and then the flesh of his right arm.

The brown locks cover part of his face, however his mask has fallen off, revealing his clenched stubbled jaw and set mouth. His steely eyes ghost over the cut you just inflicted. Almost mechanically, his fist rises, prepared to hit you but the shuffling of feet catches his attention. Strangely, the assassin stands quickly and begins to make his way to where the scientist is attempting his escape, immediately forgetting you.

_He raises his gun, takes a deep breath and lets his lungs absorb the cold winter air. His aim is set in the departing man’s head. His finger applies pressure on the trigger-_

You get up and run as you see the assassin aiming at his target. Adrenaline pumps through your veins as you use the jeep as leverage and jump on the brunette’s shoulders. He loses his balance and misses his shot, although not completely as the bullet hits the scientist’s leg, sending him to the ground clutching at it. You have your legs crossed around the assassin’s neck, squeezing hard as you hit the back of his head in hopes he’ll lose consciousness, although you know that’s being too optimistic. His metal hand clutches at the back of your bulletproof vest, trying to pry you off. The fabric digs into your skin, but you stand your ground. That is, until he begins to slam your back repeatedly into the windshield of the jeep nearby. The piercing pain extends along your ribcage and sends agonizing sparks up your spine, causing your grip on his neck to falter. You topple over and fall on the cold snow gasping, your back arching off the ground.

The assassin ignores your whimpering self and almost tiredly makes his way towards his target once again.

Clutching your side, you grab the pistol on your thigh and try to get up. A new wave of pain spreads from your twisted ankle to your bruised neck, forcing you to the ground again with a strangled scream. You prop yourself on your elbow, and watch as the assassin grabs the scientist by the collar and puts him on a choke hold.

“Stop.” You choke out. Gasping and coughing, you manage a stronger voice, “Stop!”

You clutch your side once again, teeth gritting, and get up. The throbbing pain throughout your body causes tears to stream down your cheeks and mix with the blood already on your face. You limp a few meters until you’re at a considerate distance from the assassin and raise your weapon so its aim rests where it did the first time: between his eyes, “Don’t you fucking do it!”

He tightens his hold on the wailing scientist and ignores your protests. In one swift motion his target’s neck twists and bends at an unnatural angle, leaving the lifeless body hanging in his arms. And he does it with his icy blue eyes locked on yours.

For a moment, you’re shocked. A loud gasp leaves your mouth as the scientist’s neck snaps and the loud _crack!_ echoes in the air. But then anger, impatience, desperation take over your body so you shoot. Pained, exasperated and tired screams leave your throat as you shoot and shoot and shoot until the clip of your pistol is empty. One bullet hits the assassin’s flesh arm as he deflects the others easily with his metal one. He continues his silent strides towards you, not uttering a sound nor reacting to the blood spurting fissure on his upper arm.

Deep down you know it’s useless, you know you’re as good as dead, but you also know that you’re one though motherfucker and you’re not going down without a fight.

As the man approaches, you swing your fist which connects with his metal prosthesis instead of his jaw. You manage to duck as he attempts to grab your neck, so you snatch the combat knife holstered to his thigh. Swinging it swiftly, you miss as he jumps backwards and away from the black tinted blade. You support yourself against the jeep behind you and flip the knife in the air, testing its grip and weight.

The assassin stops and eyes you with his head slightly tilted. Despite your aching body and bloodied face, you smirk at the expression on his features, “Surprised?”

That determined look from before resurfaces in him as he charges at you. You dodge his attack, his fist breaking the glass window of the jeep behind you. You swing the knife at his chest but his flesh hand catches your arm and his metal one yanks the blade off your hand forcefully. You then resource to your trusty bayonet which you take with your free hand and swing deeply onto his flesh arm. Again, he does not utter a scream, nor a remark, only a grunt as he delivers a blow to your stomach and a punch to your face. The serrated steel blade of the bayonet is still deep in his arm when you drop to the floor wheezing, clutching at your belly. He grabs the vest on your body and pulls you up above the ground, staring into your eyes. You struggle to keep awake, all energy you had left dissipates as he holds you in the air. Easing in and out of consciousness, the cough rocks your body and gasps follow at the pain it causes. A trail of blood runs down the side your mouth and stains other parts of your face while the skin under your eye is already turning purple from the blow you just received. His pale skin however, is clear. Not even a speck of blood or smudge of dirt on it.

“ _Ostanovit' soprotivlyayas'_.” _Stop resisting.,_ he simply says, the breath from his rough voice condensing in the air.

“Never.” You spat back at him.

With no other word, he lays you in the snow covered ground, rather gently for a coldhearted killer, and turns to leave.

Though when the darkness finally engulfs you completely, the last you see is the man’s icy blue eyes staring down at you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Hope the translations aren’t too bad, I am learning russian atm but there are certain words I had to go to google translate for. Sorry!  
> Also just wanted to say, that I have officially survived high school. Unbelievable I know. That means I'll finally be able to actually write as much as I want during the summer, so expect more chapters!  
> Thank you all for the feedback and kudos!


	5. Chapter 5

“You want _me_ to kill the Winter Soldier?”

“You are the only one who has fought him and survived.”

“He spared me.”

“ _You survived._ ” Fury says pointedly, his eye glaring at you.

Looking outside through the blinds, you recall that scarring day. That encounter with the Winter Soldier had been a part of your third mission with the Special Forces, a few months after you joined them. If it weren’t for the back-up group to find you, you would’ve frozen to death. You remember the voices and the heavy steps crushing the snow around your body. The shivers that constantly prickled your skin and the incapability to move. Your ragged breathing took away the ability to speak, leaving you gasping amongst the snow, desperate for one of the passing soldiers to notice you.

_You hear the soldiers’ voices growing weaker, their steps distancing themselves from your location. The imminence of spending another hour in the freezing snow slowly dying, has tears swelling in your eyes. Your whole body is numb, the snow that fell meanwhile having covered it partially. There’s dry blood scattered throughout your face and the purple-ish hue of your swollen cheek merges with the one of your nose, caused by the cold. Your chapped lips are no longer their natural color, their shade has faded to blue, trembling because of your chattering teeth. There are specks of snow dusting your eyelashes, eyebrows and hair, almost sparkling in the sun._

_You try to move, but you only achieve a slight twitch of your semi-frozen fingers. You try to speak but only a whisper comes out. Losing hope, you close your eyes and tears escape, waiting for the darkness to engulf you._

_“Guys, wait up! I think-” Boots stomp the snow and the sun is obscured by someone who casts a shadow over you, “-I found someone… Hey I found someone!”_

_Snow begins to be quickly pushed off you and you feel two warm hands grab your arms and lift your limp body up. What seems like a scalding hot palm is laid gently against your cheek, and a body is pressed against your side, a gloved hand rapidly running up and down your arm._

_You open your eyes slowly and eye the man, who looks back at you, “It’s okay, you’re safe now. I’m Wade Wilson, I’m part of the back-up group. We’re taking you home.”_

_After noticing his attire and the few similar men gathering around, you sigh as relief washes over you. A blanket is pulled over your trembling body as Wade lifts you off the ground. “Don’t worry, I got you.” The tears now flow freely and you cling onto Wade, who in return keeps murmuring soothing words to you as he carries you to the helicopter._

 

A shuddered breath leaves your lungs as you recall the situation.

Is this a good idea? The piercing blue eyes of the Winter Soldier haunted you for months after that; every night spent twisting and turning in your sleep. But you really do need the fucking money. Oh, do you _need_ it. The feeling of adrenaline that coursed through your veins that day is something you miss too. That sensation that brings an extra energy to you, that feeling that you haven’t felt in so long… The targets you were assigned when you first became a mercenary were big, _important_. Crime lords, Mafia bosses, every contract was directed to you. However, over the past years, more and more mercs popped up. The jobs became more distributed and you get the scraps now. The rush of fighting an equal has been absent for a long time.

_Fuck it._ You’re accepting.    

The folder is open in front of you, a single sheet of paper with scarce information about the Soldier on top of it. Some details about his first and last sightings, the type of gear he uses and not much else.

Your eyebrows rise as you pick up the paper with your index finger and your thumb, “Is this it?” As the Director sighs heavily, your eyes run over the few words on the paper, “Fury, how am I supposed to find him with _this_?”

“He’s close, in DC.”

Confused, you frown. However, as you access Fury’s appearance once more, the realization dawns on you, your eyes widening, “Did he do this to you?”

You watch as Fury opens his mouth, but closes it again. Ignoring your question, he takes the sheet of paper from your hand and stuffs it inside the folder, which returns to his jacket. He slides off the booth and stands, supporting his weight against the side of it, “I need you in DC. Tomorrow.” He turns and begins to head towards the exit. The doorbell rings when he opens the door. “We’ll discuss the rest once you get there. Meet me at the Triskelion. And ah- good luck.” He says over his shoulder.

The door bounces close and the song’s final notes dissipate in the air. You run a hand through your hair and sigh, “Thanks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So guys, I'm so so sorry for the small af chapter. This week's been a mess and I haven't finished writing what was supposed to be the rest of this chapter (and has now turned into the next), but I didn't want to let this week go by without any updates, so here. I'll try to get the next one (which it'll be pretty big) up asap. On the weekend or the beginning of next week tops.  
> Hope you liked it and thank you for the comments and kudos, I really appreciate them all!


	6. Chapter 6

You walk along the corridor of the building, stopping under the flickering light near your door. The doormat shuffles under your feet as you insert and turn your keys on the key lock of the wooden door. As you open it, the dark atmosphere and the messiness of your small living room assaults your eyes. You step inside and flip the light switch on, immediately feeling Chip rubbing his head against your clothed leg.

“Hey baby!” You greet the cat with a high pitched voice as you bend down to pick him up. The animal let’s out a soft _meow_ , licking your jaw after. Chuckling, you peck his soft head, “Sorry I’ve been gone so long.”

The small high table to your left it’s filled with scrunched receipts and empty take out boxes, but you manage to clear some space and drop your bag and keys on top of it. You slip one shoe and then the other off and push them under the table, where your old, dirty and ripped Converse are placed next to some fluffy bunny slippers Wade got you, but you rarely use. You notice Wade’s boots toppled over nearby in the dark carpet floor, signaling he’s already here. The TV is off, but you walk to the middle of your living room and peek over the couch nonetheless, checking if he’s sprawled on it as usual. He’s not though, only his plaid red and black jacket and the cushions covered in Chip’s grey fur are arranged on each side of the couch.

As you wiggle out of your jacket and set it on the back of the couch, Chip begins to squirm in your grasp, “Woah, alright!” You set him on the floor and he scampers off to your room, located to the right on the hall, “Missed you too!”

You head towards the kitchenette, conveniently placed a couple meters away from the couch.

“Wade…” You groan as you notice the several pizza boxes that weren’t there when you left in the afternoon. They are scattered on top of the counter, spots of grease showing through the cardboard. You don’t get a reply from the merc. He’s is either sleeping or thinking he’s funny. Either way, you continue to stack the boxes, lifting the cardboard when it seems there’s some pizza left. The half of a pizza that seems to have remained has a few slices half eaten, small and uneven bites around the edges.

“Wade, I’m gonna fucking kill you! I told you Chip can’t eat this type of shit!”, you shout as you head to your room, your sock cladded feet stomping the floor.

The door is ajar so you push it open swiftly, finding only Chip laying in your king size bed with half of the sheets falling off and both pillows disarranged. The dresser in front of the bed has one of its drawers slightly open, the drawer that you somehow broke this morning and didn’t have the patience to fix. Several hygiene products are dispersed on top of the dresser, as well as a small circular mirror filled with fingerprints and smudges of makeup, placed to the side. Adjacent to that, there’s a rack with random shirts and jackets hanging on it. The window is slightly open, causing the dark colored curtains to sway in the breeze that creeps inside, and the pale moonlight to illuminate the room.

You frown.

_Where the hell’s Wade at?_

It’s not like there’s any more rooms to check besides the bathroom behind you, so you begin to turn until you feel the warmth of a hand on your waist. On instinct, your elbow moves back and it hits the person on the ribs, who takes the impact with a grunt. You turn around, prepared to reach for the pistol still in your underarm holster, only to find Wade slightly bent over, a hand on the right side of his torso.

“Jesus Christ! Calm down!” Wade screams, his face scrunched in pain as he lifts the tank top on his upper body, revealing a purple mark where you just hit him.

You roll your eyes. Wade has the habit of sneaking up on you and it never ends up well for him. The first time you gave him a black eye, the second time a kick in the crotch, the following the outcome was similar.

“I’ve told you to not sneak up on me a million times.” You slap his hand away when he tries to reach out for the hem of your shirt, “And I’ve also told you to not let Chip eat junk food.”

“Yeah, yeah…” Wade leans against the doorframe when you enter the bedroom. He shifts from foot to foot for a few seconds as you turn on the bedside lamp and begin to strip out of your gear. “So, uh-” He rubs his neck for a couple seconds before folding his arms, “-how did it go?”

Snorting, you take your gun out of its holster and place it on your nightstand on top of the book you’re currently reading, a roll of toilet paper and a toppled over tube of chapstick next to it. The leather holster slides down your arms and you hang it in the rack, “He didn’t show.”

You hear Wade huffing behind you, a mumble of _Shit_ or _Fuck_ or _Motherfucker_ following. You can’t quite make out which one it was. Could’ve been either, or all three.

Placing your foot on the bed, you look over your shoulder as you grab the velcro strap of the bayonet holster on your thigh. Wade is grabbing the bridge of his nose, his mouth in a tight line and eyes shut. Not wanting him to dwell on the subject, you quickly continue, “Someone else did, though.”

His eyes shoot up in a confused and questioning expression, causing the corner of your lip to twitch.

You straighten up again and walk to the dresser where you place the knife. Leaning against it, you speak, “Fury.”

Wade frowns, his eyes locked on yours, “Eyepatch man?”

You snicker at the nickname and nod, “Hm hm.”

Wade pushes himself away from the door and sits on your bed against the headboard. His hand finds Chip’s head and begins to lazily caress the grey fur, “What did he want?”

“He offered me a job… a tough one, but a job nonetheless.” Your eyes dart to your feet. You don’t have the courage to look at Wade, knowing this’ll hurt him. Hell, it’s hurting you. So, you crouch and reach under your bed, avoiding his gaze, “I uh-…” You swallow hard as your hand catches one of the straps of your travel backpack, “He needs me in DC.” 

Your nerves grow with the silence that follows, as you rummage through your broken underwear drawer. Looking behind you, you observe Wade’s pursed lips, the way his brows plunge into a frown and his overall somber expression.

“When are you leaving?” He asks, his eyes shifting momentarily to the backpack at your feet.

Huffing, you throw some panties and bras inside the backpack and abruptly release the drawer you were trying to repair. It slumps down and crooks even more than before, causing you to throw your hands in the air and curse under your breath. Sighing, you grip the side of the dresser, a dry chuckle leaving your mouth. You look up, feeling the tears growing in your eyes, “Tomorrow.”

You hear the bed springs’ squeak and feet approaching. When you turn around, Wade is standing in front of you, his hand reaching out for your arm. “I’m sorry.” You breathe out shakily, tears prickling in your eyes and a knot forming in your throat.

Wade only wraps his arms around you calmly, and murmurs calming words as tears start to stream down your face. You rest your head against his chest, his familiar scent crawling its way into your lungs. Small sobs rock your body as emotion floods your system. Wade’s hand rubs soothing circles on your back, as both of yours grip the fabric of his tank top, a mix of tears and makeup soaking it.

Your ‘emotionless badass’ façade crumbles down leisurely, piece by piece. The dread of leaving Wade becomes more apparent to you as the seconds go by. For the past two years, you’ve been with him by your side, since he found you in the kazakhstani wilderness until you both left the Special Forces and settled with this lifestyle. You’ve become so used to his presence, to his voice and the wit that comes with it. To the way he gazes at you sweetly like a brother would at a sister, but also the way his brown orbs darken lustfully when you show up in your birthday suit. His eyes wrinkling when he laughs and the sound when he does so will be miles away for god knows how long.

You recall the days when Frank was your only family fondly, but then Wade came along and brought Weasel with him. Your life brightened when you moved back to New York, having your own family, albeit small and dysfunctional, all in one place brought a sense of fulfillment to you. Being around people you love and who love you back for the first time in your life changed you for the best. No one walking off, no one abandoning anyone. Just you and Wade taking jobs regularly, coming home at the end of the day to cuddle with Chip on the couch, strengthening your somewhat strange relationship of loving each other as brother and sister, acting as best friends, but still fucking from time to time. Surprisingly, it never got weird or awkward. If anything, it reinforced the bond that continually sprouted between you two.

After a few minutes, your crying subsides and Wade pulls away slightly, tucking a few strands of hair behind your ear. His brown eyes stare into your own as he cups your face, “You’ll be back in no time, baby.” A loud sob leaves your mouth and you shake your head to the sides, a single tear rolling down your wet cheek. Wade wipes it with the pad of his thumb, “No, no, c’mon… I’ll be fine and most importantly, you’ll be fine. You know why?” A smirk pulls at his mouth when you look at him through your tear soaked eyelashes, “Because you is kind, you is smart, and you is important.”

You sniff and chuckle lightly, “Did you just quote _The Help_?”

“I did.” Wade’s eyes search your face for a few seconds, concern evident in them, relief too after successfully cheering you up. He pulls you into another hug, his bulky body enveloping your smaller frame.

“I’m gonna miss you.” You mumble quietly against his chest. His steady heartbeat calms you, the exhausting aftermath of the stress and crying finally enclosing your senses.

“I know. I’m gonna miss you too.” Wade rubs your arm affectionately after he feels you relax in his arms. He pushes away, “C’mon, let’s get you to bed. I wanna see that ass one last time!”

You both strip out of your clothing, Wade slips under the covers in his boxers, and you follow in your panties, a short-sleeved graphic tee covering your torso. You feel Chip’s body warmth settle against your legs as Wade wraps his arm around you. Finally, you’re able to take a deep breath, the exhaustion causing your eyelids to droop and sleep to overtake you.

“Hey,” Wade says after a few minutes of silence, his breath ghosting your neck, “You didn’t tell me who your target is.”

A humorless laugh escapes your mouth as you try your best to remain awake. You keep your eyes closed, taking a deep breath, “Yeah... About that…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so I hope you all liked it! I’m sorry that we have to say goodbye to Wade (he may return *wink wink*), but we do have a Soldier to catch in DC. I was really torn between making this a super fun smutty type of chapter, or this, aka super sad and depressing. I settled for this. I just don’t want the reader to be seen as this heartless, emotionless person, bc she’s not that. At all. She’s actually very sensitive when it comes to family as you may have noticed in other chapters before this one. Anyways, DC here we go!


	7. Chapter 7

_Woah_

You hand a twenty dollar bill to the taxi driver through the window of the passenger seat, your eyes never leaving the huge concrete building that takes up most of your sight. As the cab drives off, you’re left standing in the sidewalk, an overly-packed backpack on your back, and the pet transport box with Chip inside on your hand.

After you said your goodbyes to a pissed off Wade at the airport (to say he was angry when you told him your target was the _only_ man to almost kill you ever, is putting it lightly), you boarded the plane headed to your destination. The flight from New York to Washington DC was quick. A little over an hour is how much time you spent stuffed in the Economy class seats. Fury didn’t exactly say anything other than _Meet me at the Triskelion_ , so first thing you did once you landed was head there. He didn’t give you any details as to where you’re staying or what guns you’ll be using (since you obviously couldn’t bring your own unlicensed ones on a plane). Miraculously, you managed to bring your knives, so at least there’s that.

Now, you walk towards the Triskelion, stopping in front of a small security building before the long road that accesses the headquarters’ inside. Immediately, a man dressed in a dark uniform steps outside and heads towards you, his hand in the air, “I’m sorry miss, this area is off limits to civilians.”

Gazing around yourself, you dismiss the guard’s words, “Yeah, I was told to meet the Director today.” You finally lock eyes with him and say your name, hoping Fury put you on the clear.

The man grabs the walkie talkie from the belt on his waist and repeats your name to it, asking for confirmation. As you wait, you plaster a smile on your face and stare at him, watching as his eyes flicker away from yours uncomfortably, sometimes landing on Chip inside the pet box. Oh, how you _love_ to mess with these seemingly skilled and deadly people. After a few minutes, a car shows and drives you inside the big parking lot where you take an elevator to the main entrance.

When the elevator doors open, your sight is flooded with the sleek architecture of the place and your ears assaulted with the voices echoing off the broad walls. You step outside the elevator unsure, feeling completely out of place amongst the dozens of people walking around in their expensive suits and briefcases. Yeah… Maybe you shouldn’t be wearing your Captain America t-shirt. Your eyes lift from the shield on your chest, partially covered by your leather jacket and land on the reception desk to which you head.

“Hi.” You greet, cringing when the receptionist’s eyes widen unconsciously at you. Placing your free hand on the desk, you drum your fingers and introduce yourself, “I’m here to speak with Director Fury.”

“Oh, uh-” Her defined eyebrows drop momentarily, gaze jumping from side to side, “He uh- Yes. I mean, of course, miss. But you’ll be speaking with Mr. Pierce instead.”

Your somewhat calm features turn into a frown.

_Alexander Pierce?_

“May I ask why?”

“Mr. Pierce will be sure to explain. 21st floor at the end of the corridor, please.” She answers quickly, turning her gaze to the screen in the desk once more.

 

You exit the elevator, stepping into a much quieter space. Your shoes squeak on the shiny dark marble floor as you walk down the corridor. That’s the only sound heard, as well as the _click_ of the heels of a pretty blonde woman that walks by you. She seems familiar. You recognize her face, although not sure from where. The occasional _meow_ ’s from Chip echo off the homogeneous grey walls that surround you. The sound of a door closing is heard, heavy footsteps following. You keep on your way, glancing around the polished surroundings.

When you turn the corner, your whole body collides with what it feels like a brick wall, sending you stumbling backwards, the transport box with Chip inside trembling and almost escaping your grip. A loud hiss comes from the cat, as does a whine from you, “Ow, fuck!” You cup your cheek with your free hand, flinching when the skins touch, “What the hell man!? Watch where yo-”

When your eyes lift and connect with the sky blue one’s you’ve seen on TV so many times, you feel like digging a hole right there, burying yourself in it and never coming out. The huge man that is _Steve Rogers_ stands in front of you dressed in his blue combat uniform, slightly dumbfounded at your words. His eyes are wide, the pale skin of his cheeks flushing and his pink lips slightly parted.

“Captain America! I mean, Captain Rogers, uh it’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.” You say quickly, bobbing your head up and down. You swallow after feeling your voice crack and plaster a lopsided smile which quickly turns into a nervous chuckle when his eyes drop to your shirt for a few seconds, “Big fan.”

Steve smiles sweetly, shaking your hand after you give him your name, “Can I help you ma’am? You seem lost.”

“Oh, I was told to speak with Mr. Pierce, but I actually came here to speak with Director Fury. Discuss an important matter, you know? Do you uh-” You push a few strands of hair behind your ears, trying to ignore the heart that seems to leave your chest with every beat, “Do you know where he might be?” 

Cap’s jaw clenches, and the warmth present in his blue orbs before fades away. He stares at you for a few seconds, his eyes searching your face for something you don’t understand. He turns around quickly, mumbling a _Follow me_ , before striding to the opposite end of the corridor.

A door is open and you both step inside, Steve closing it swiftly, but gently enough not to draw any attention. A long wooden table stretches along the room clearly meant for meetings, various chairs scattered around it. He gestures to the table, patiently waiting as you place Chip’s box and drop your backpack on it. As you turn back to the Captain, his calloused hands grab your shoulders and push you against the wall violently. His right forearm is pressing back on your chest and his left hand curled into a fist is placed on the stone wall next to your head.

On impact, a grunt leaves your mouth, the air being pushed out of your lungs. Both your hands are gripping his forearm, nails digging into the blue fabric. Steve’s face is close, his lips coiled into a snarl. He eyes you up and down, “What did Fury want with you?”

“Ouch.” You say cheekily, regretting it as soon as the Captain slams you a bit harder into the wall. Wincing, you choke out, “I can’t tell you, Captain.”

Steve’s lips purse, his gaze burning into yours, “Fury’s dead.” He says firmly, yet you can see the sadness in his eyes, “Now, what did he want with you?!” He asks, voice tone raising angrily.

Your brows furrow, “Fury’s dead?” Heaving shakily, your eyes dart to the floor.

_Fuck…_

“I…” You swallow hard, “I didn’t know.” Cap notices your confusion and eases the strength on your chest, apprehension blossoming in his features as he backs away. You lean against the wall, trying to organize your thoughts. How the hell is Fury dead? You saw him less than 24 hours ago…

_Wait-_

Your eyes swiftly rise to meet the Captain’s blue irises, “Was it the Winter Soldier?”

“What?”

“Yesterday, Fury came to me in New York. He was hurt,” Unlocking your gaze from Steve’s, you remember Fury’s appearance, the scrapes and cuts on his face and the blood-soaked fabric that covered his broken arm, “Bad. He hired me to take care of this… _assassin_.”

Steve’s eyes squint slightly, and he crosses his arms, “Hired you?”

You shrug, lips pressing together, “Mercenary.” You reply, pointing a finger at yourself. “The Winter Soldier is not like any other assassin, Captain Rogers, I’ve dealt with him first hand. I suppose that’s why Fury wanted _me_ for the job. He said we’d meet here, but I uh- I guess not. He told me-” You pause, surprised you managed to not curse for this long, but also searching the Captain’s face for malice, for any reason to distrust him, although all you find is kindness and determination, “He told me SHIELD’s been compromised.” You whisper.

Steve’s previously defensive stance relaxes slightly, his gaze no longer accusing and judgmental, but curious, boring into yours in silence for a few seconds, as if analyzing you, “How can I trust you?”

A breath you didn’t know you were holding is released shakily through your parted lips, “I don’t know, Captain.” Chip’s loud _meow!_ has you both glancing at the cat. A boyish smirk reappears on Steve’s face, and a small smile of your own pulls at your lips, “All I know is Fury did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyoo  
> Two updates close to each other bc I felt like we needed some Stevie asap   
> Another familiar face will show in the next chapter too eheh  
> Hope you guys enjoyed it! Thank you all for the kudos and comments, you're the best


	8. Chapter 8

After your one of a kind encounter with Steve Rogers, you were left with an address written in your phone and extra money on your hand.

 _In case you need it, for a cab or food,_ Steve had mumbled, cheeks red after hearing and most likely not understanding one your terrible sugar daddy jokes, as he handed you a few dollar bills, like the gentleman he is.

After he left the room, you’re not sure what happened. All you noticed was the whole building being flooded by SHIELD agents looking for the Captain, several of them running by you in the corridors. The innumerous glass shards that covered the entire floor of the main entrance, the now non-existing ceiling there, and of course, the gunfire and explosions on the bridge that were heard and felt all around, were hard to miss too. You left the Triskelion as soon as you could, dismissing the idea of speaking with Pierce, obviously. From what Steve told you, the man acted more suspicious than ever during their brief meeting. So, after a bit of reluctance in both parts, you and Steve both agreed to help each other. To work together in finding Fury’s killer, the Winter Soldier.

Walking casually but quickly, through the chaos that soon overtook the SHIELD headquarters, you left the building, headed to the address Steve had left. _A safe place,_ as he had deemed it.

And that’s how you ended up here. In front of a small but elegant house in one of Washington DC’s many neighborhoods. Other similar houses fill the street. Some are bigger than the others but most of them maintain the same sleek and yet modest look. Various trees are scattered throughout the street, their growing green leaves rustle in the wind, signaling the Spring that envelops the city. A couple holding hands walks by across the street, as several children play in a yard nearby, their giggles and shouts filling the air. It seems almost… _too innocent_.

“Are you sure this is it?” You ask the taxi driver for the third time, glancing at him through the passenger window before returning your gaze to the house. 

“Yes.” The middle aged man says tiredly, pointing his index finger at the GPS fixed to the windshield. You squint and bite your lip when you check that _(again)_ the address on the device is the same as the one on your phone. “Hey, I have a client downtown. Can you…” He waves his hands around, motioning for you to hurry.

“Yeah, yeah, sorry.” You pull a few dollar bills from the pocket of your pants and hand them to him.

When the taxi is finally out of sight, you walk around the house and reach the back door. You knock twice on the glass and wait. For a few seconds there’s no response, leaving you shifting from foot to foot, eyes darting around, absorbing the atmosphere of what it seems _normal_. There’s shuffling on the other side of the door. The blinds behind the glass part momentarily, revealing two big brown orbs staring at you. They quickly vanish and the blinds are pulled up, the door sliding open.

A man stands there, his hand still on the door knob. Brown skin surrounds eyes of the same color that look you up and down. A dark goatee that matches his short hair, frames his full lips that are set until he speaks, “Can I help you?”

“Hi, hm, yes. Steve said you could.” You hold up your phone and pull up a video, the thumbnail that displays Steve awkwardly standing in the meeting room of the Triskelion, filling the screen. The man eyes you suspiciously as you take a deep breath and press play.

_“Can I start?” Steve says quietly as he rubs his neck uncomfortably._

_Your voice is heard from behind the device, “Wait! Fuckin’-” The camera shuffles and points to the marble floor for a couple of seconds, your fingers partially covering it. It finally straightens and puts Steve in frame, “Yeah, go ahead.”_

_Steve postures up, “Sam, I’m sorry about this. I know it’s all very sudden and uh-” He pauses, eyes darting to the ground, mind searching for the right word, “-strange, but I-I’ll explain when I get the chance. All I ask of you is to give her a place to stay, somewhere to lay low until I come to you both.”_

_“C’mon Cap, bring out those puppy eyes!” You sing from behind the phone, earning a stern look from Steve, like a parent scolding their child._

_“Please, Sam.”_

When the video comes to an end, you lock and push your phone inside your pocket. You remain silent for the following seconds, waiting for the man in front of you to speak up, but when he doesn’t, you do, “So… You must be Sam, right?”

Sam’s attention snaps from the porch floor to you, “Yeah.” The corner of his lip twitches upon hearing your name, “Nice shirt.”

You smile at him, slightly relieved he seems more inclined towards helping you. Although his body is still covering most of the doorway and he hasn’t let you in.

_Why hasn’t he let me in?_

“Am I just supposed to let you in?” He says calmly, but your eyes snap to him as if he has read your mind. Although, after seeing a **_GOD_** and a big **_GREEN_** dude fighting _aliens_ in the New York battle, you wouldn’t be surprised. “You know, I’m not really fond of strangers, but seeing as Steve trusts you,” He moves slightly to his right, motioning for you to walk in, “I’m gonna give you the benefit of the doubt, alright?” Sam says lightheartedly, however, you can sense that his guard is up. You can’t blame him though. Who in their right minds lets a stranger into their house? Even if Captain America is the one telling you to do it.

“Thanks. I hope you don’t mind but I-uh” You glance at the pet box in your hand. Lifting it, your eyes connect with Chip’s bright yellow ones, “I have a cat.”

Sam, who was already in the kitchen with a cup of coffee in hand, stops, “Ah, hell.” He sets the cup down on the counter and runs a hand over his face, his gaze moving to the white ceiling, “Steve’s definitely got some explainin’ to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey!  
> Hope you don't mind the short chapter! However, I'm on a writing rampage (like super inspired), so I'll probably have the next chapter up in the next couple days.  
> Also, please let me know if you guys care how long the chapters are! I usually don't really pay attention to the length, I just stop whenever I feel like it makes more sense to, regardless if it's 900 words or 4000. And as I've (surprisingly) been updating quite frequently, I don't see a problem, but I'd still like to know your opinions!  
> Thank you :)


	9. Chapter 9

Over the dark jeans that cover your legs, the last holster needed for your knives is attached to your body. The M9 bayonet is holstered to your right thigh, the hunting knife on the left. The combat knife is strategically placed on your hip, and the karambit next to it has its curved blade reflecting the light. Finally, you attach the black tinted boot knife to your ankle, as good measure. No guns still, which is nice as you feel more flexible without their weight, but it also limits you to close range, and even though it _is_ your favorite fighting style, you’d rather have both options.

But why are you with your gear strapped on and ready to kick some ass, you ask? Because you’ve been stuck in Sam’s house for _20 hours_ , that’s why.

Doesn’t sound like much, but when you’re a mercenary who hasn’t stopped moving for the past 10 years of her life, it doesn’t make sense nor is it comfortable to be still, calm, relaxed. Especially when there’s a target to kill, yet no money to receive.

You pull your hair out of your face, and zip up the dark military green hoodie under your leather jacket. The bed in the guest room along with the gray cotton sheets sprawled on it, sink when you sit to put your boots on. The early morning rays filter through the blinds and reflect off the blue walls of the room. In front of the mirror, you slip the black fingerless gloves onto your slim hands, as your eyes roam your body, searching for something that might be missing from your attire.

Sam left on his morning run a few hours ago, leaving the house silent, deprived of the wit that you have realized, comes with him. However, you took the liberty to connect your phone to Sam’s sound system, so now John Mayer’s voice echoes through the house, _Gravity_ ’s soft melody keeping you company, since Chip’s still asleep on the makeshift bed you and Sam made yesterday.

You walk downstairs, stretching your arms above your head. The joints pop as you enter the kitchen and immediately remember the voice that woke you up abruptly a few hours ago.

_Don’t touch anything! It’s more than enough to have your cat ruining my couch!_

You think Sam wasn’t including food in _anything_ , or at least you hope so, because you’re deep into a bag of cookies he shouldn’t have left lying in the counter. The milk glass next to you vanishes in one go and you get up, preparing to leave the house. Or so you thought.

You open the kitchen’s door to the backyard with your eyes set down on your phone, desperately trying to unfreeze the app on the shitty device and pause the music that is now heard outside.

“John Mayer? Seriously?” An out of breath Sam stands outside in front of you, a grin on his lips and a dark eyebrow cocked. The dark purple Nike t-shirt he wears is slightly damp, as is his skin that glistens when he brushes past you and into the house. He takes one of the remotes near the TV display and turns off the sound system. Sam turns around and chuckles when he notices your geared-up self leaning against the kitchen counter, with arms crossed and a slight pout on the lips, “Going somewhere?”

“Actually, yeah.” Annoyed, you huff and purse your lips, “I just can’t stand to be stuck here anymore, Sam. I’m going after him.” You say, momentarily forgetting that Sam isn’t yet filled on what happened. Your gloved hand is on the doorknob, ready to turn it and go pursue your target, but Sam’s voice stops you.

“What, have you leave so then I’m doomed to hear Steve _and_ take care of your cat?” He wipes the sweat on his brow with one hand, the other gesturing to the cat that stretches on the floor, recently awake from his slumber, “Nah, I don’t think so.” He adds with a shake of his head. Even though the side of his mouth is tilted up, it’s clear that he wouldn’t hesitate in trying to stop you from leaving. You’re sure he notices your uncertainty.

 _Jesus_ , you just want to get this over with. This whole situation is revealing to be much more than just a simple job that would have taken two weeks, tops. Everything went south way too quickly. Fury’s fucking dead, and now you’re involved with Captain America, who’s wanted by SHIELD, making you a possible target as well. You don’t have your weapons, it’s a miracle that Sam has let you stay in his house, and you’re not even getting paid afterwards. Not even a _fucking_ cent. If anything, you’re _losing_ money. Pretty ironic, considering the whole point of taking this job.

And to think only a few days ago you were at Sister Margaret’s, drinking and laughing and sharing stories with Wade and Weasel…

You sigh and close your eyes, still facing the door, “Sam, please…”

Sam leans on the wooden table near the kitchen and crosses his arms, “Kid, just wait for Steve. He said he’d be here soon, right?”

Your hand drops to the side, leaving the doorknob. You turn to Sam again and do your best to look unaffected, but all you manage is a tight lipped smile. You really don’t want to fight your way out of this. Not after Sam helping you when he didn’t have to. So, you try to lighten the mood, “Kid? You and I are practically the same age.”

“Oh, no, trust me. We are not.” Sam opens the fridge and takes a bottle of orange juice out of it, “You’re one of those technology addicted millennials.” He widens his eyes and lifts his eyebrows mockingly as he unscrews the cap and brings the bottle to his lips.

An honest laugh erupts from your throat. You open your mouth once again, but before your cheeky remark can be voiced, a sequence of knocks on the door interrupts you. Sam’s brows furrow slightly and as he sets down the bottle. His eyes dart to the hallway, silently telling you to hide somewhere.

You move quickly and quietly, entering the first door to your left that happens to be a storage closet. The chemical smell of cleaning products burns your nostrils as you try to remain quiet and at the same time, not bump into any of the mops, buckets and boxes that are scattered throughout the floor and leaning against the walls. You place the side of your head against the wooden door when you hear the blinds being pulled up.

The hum of a deep manly voice that’s not Sam’s, is heard. After a few seconds, you perceive the clear timbre of a woman’s voice and every word she says, “Everyone we know is trying to kill us.”

 

* * *

 

 Steve is seating on the opposite side of the table from you, his gaze fixed on the glass of orange juice he’s twiddling with. Sam’s behind the kitchen island, spreading butter on a toast, while observing the interaction, or rather lack of it, between you and Steve. You have your legs crossed, your side leaning against the chair’s back. Your arms are folded and your gaze fixed on the wooden floor, lost in thought.

The state in which Steve arrived about an hour ago wasn’t good, to say the least. His skin was stained, splotches of dirt and grime covering it. His hair and clothes were disheveled and dirty as well. Now, what exactly did cause that? You heard _missile strike_ when Steve was filling both you and Sam in, but refuse to believe it.  

Steps are heard and the russian assassin comes to view. Straight red hair bounces on her shoulders, pale skin covered by a black tank top and some leggings you borrowed. Everyone lifts their head at the new presence in the room, but it’s with your eyes that her green orbs connect.

Steve immediately chimes in, “Natasha, this is-”

“I know who she is.” Nat walks further into the kitchen and leans on the counter. A ghost of a smile appears on her plump lips, “A bit older, but she has the same face.”

Your cheeks flush and you smile back at her, slightly embarrassed but also proud that the Black Widow remembers your childish face from 7 years ago.

“I heard about your mission in Kazakhstan. He did quite a number on you, but you made it.” She adds, a solemn expression crossing her features, an expression that only you will ever understand. The Widow also encountered the Winter Soldier a few years back, before you did. The only difference was she didn’t get to fight him: the Soldier shot a bullet right through her in order to kill the scientist she was protecting.

Sam is currently chewing with his mouth full, not saying a word as the scene unfolds in front of him. He only grunts and waves his hands around comically when Chip jumps on the counter. Steve is confused, his blue eyes jumping between you and Natasha, “So you two know each other.” He states more than asks, voice firm and clearly upset that he hadn’t been informed before.

“Yes.” Nat replies before you can, her gaze finally moving from yours to Steve.

You quickly intervene and continue, not sure what the Widow was planning to disclose about you, “I trained with Natasha when I applied to SHIELD a few years back. Fury didn’t accept me though.” You say steadily, surprised the topic doesn’t enervate you anymore.

“Waste of talent, if you ask me.” Natasha mumbles before shifting in place and leaning on her hand that’s propped on the counter. She lifts the other and let’s Chip sniff her palm, before petting the cat’s head, “So, the question is, who at SHIELD could launch a domestic missile attack?”

“Pierce.”

While Natasha and Steve discuss the information they had found, you sit quietly at the head of the table, fingers drumming on it as you listen. They speak of Alexander Pierce and judging by what they say, whatever he’s plotting isn’t good. Natasha realizes of someone who was present in the Lemurian Star, is clearly affiliated with Pierce, and most likely has the information you need, _Jasper Sitwell._

Sitwell is the key, so it’s decided that the best way to extract the information is by kidnapping him, the only question that remains is, _how?_

“What’s this?”

“Call it a résumé.” Sam replies, dropping two folders on top of the table. One of them has a picture attached to it, while the other is identified by big and fat letters.

Steve stands up and eyes the folders as Natasha picks the one with the picture up and questions Sam. While they speak you reach across the table for the other one.

**_EXO-7 FALCON | CLASSIFIED_ **

You open the folder and run your eyes over the letters. Detailed descriptions of the jetpack occupy the page, as well as various reports of its use. You turn the page and various pictures pop up, of men and women wearing the wings, some flying, others on the ground. Several of them were taken on what you can distinguish by being military bases while others seem to have been captured on the battlefield.

“I heard they couldn’t bring in the choppers because of the RPGs.” Natasha tears her eyes from the folder and focuses them on Sam, “What did you use? A stealth chute?” 

“Dude,” Your eyes widen as they land on a picture of a younger Sam. His feet are set firmly on the ground, but the mechanical wings stretch beautifully from the piece on his back. Another man is standing curved behind him with a screwdriver in hand, seemingly working on the gadget. Sam’s eyes are covered by goggles, leaving the shaved lower half of his face unprotected, a genuine smile on his lips. “That’s so fucking cool, Sam!” You say, beaming at Sam over your shoulder, not noticing Steve’s pointed look that screams _Language!_.

Steve closes the file on his hands, his gaze returning to Sam. He idly moves the folder in the air, “Where can we get our hands on one of these things?”

“The last one is at Fort Meade. Behind three guarded gates and a 12-inch steel wall.”

The Captain’s eyes move from you to Nat, who shrugs. He nods, “Shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Cap.” The chair screeches on the floor as you stand up, “I need something from the Fort too.” Steve’s brow rises slightly but he remains silent, waiting for you to speak. Your eyes dart to Natasha, who has a slight smirk on her lips. Her head nods almost imperceptibly, encouraging you to continue, “I need guns.”

“Don’t worry,” Steve pushes the chair he was previously sitting on and drops the folder on top of the table, “You’ll have them.”  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the feedback and the kudos! <3


	10. Chapter 10

The taste of metal emerges in your mouth as the soldier’s fist disconnects from your cheek. Pausing, you move your jaw side to side, wincing when you hear it crack. You take the opportunity to scrutinize the soldier in front of you, whose cocky expression fades when he perceives the way your gaze is boring into him. If looks could kill, well, he’d be dead. 

You slowly walk towards him, grabbing his arm midair when he attempts another punch. Your other hand curls into a fist and you punch his abdomen, earning a strangled groan from the soldier. When he bends over instinctively, you bring your knee to his face. You loop around him in a silent dance, and finally, he is swept off his feet by your leg.

Sighing, you smirk as your eyes land in the trail of unconscious soldiers that spans across the corridor. You gotta admit, you and the Captain make a good team. The black metal door at the end of the corridor calls for you silently, causing you to almost skip to it. Then, your gaze moves slightly to the right aaand there it is. The security system. _Ugh._ You need one of the soldier’s cards to gain access to it.

Huffing, you turn around, eyes widening and arm flinching just in time for a bullet to ricochet off the concrete wall to your left.

With your chest heaving and a snarl on your features, in one stride you’re next to the beaten up soldier on the ground. You kick the pistol off his hand viciously, not holding back on the strength.

Yeah… You’re pretty sure his finger isn’t supposed to bend that way.

You straddle his waist, pinning each of his arms with your knees, as you snatch the combat knife from your hip and quickly flip it in the air. When your fingers grip the handle, your covered knuckles turn white and the blade is pushed against the pale throat of the soldier.

“Don’t!”

Your attention snaps from the soldier pinned below you to the source of the voice, _Steve_ , at the end of the corridor. He blocks a punch with his shield and then lands a kick on a soldier’s abdomen that knocks him out, sending his unconscious form flying backwards. The guy lands near you with a thud as the Captain approaches. You glare at Steve through your eyelashes, waiting for him to speak and tightening your hold on the soldier when he squirms too much.

Steve fastens the shield to his back, his eyes glancing at where the blade connects with the soldier’s neck, “We’re not here to kill anyone.” He speaks slowly, voice firm. His prominent jaw is clenched and his cerulean gaze severe, burning into yours mercilessly.

Pursing your lips in annoyance, you holster your knife, “I know.” You reply nonchalantly, feigning indifference as you stand up. You offer a hand to the soldier on the ground with a grin plastered on your lips. He takes it reluctantly, a mix of confusion and wariness crossing his features as well as the Captain’s next to you. When the soldier is up, you run a hand over his heaving shoulders, smoothing the creases of his uniform gently. Turning towards the door once again, you only give two strides before turning around swiftly. You bring your leg up and as it hits the side of the soldier’s head, a grunt leaves your mouth. As he topples to the ground unconscious, you snatch the card attached to his jacket and head towards the door.

You glance over your shoulder at Steve who, you can tell, is becoming more and more used to your style, by the way one of his brows rises and his eyes no longer adopt judgment or discontentment, but a questioning twinkle.

You shrug, “Asshole punched me.”

The screen flashes green after it reads the soldier’s stolen card, so you push open the heavy door. Before you step inside, Natasha’s voice comes in through the intercom, “I got eyes on Wilson’s wings. How about you guys?”

The racks fill the room from the ceiling to the floor. Lights illuminate the several weapons neatly arranged on their place, from AK’s to crossbows, all ready to be touched by your excited hands.

Your eyes sparkle at the options and you remain quiet as you step further into the room, as if in a daze, so Steve who’s trailing behind you takes it upon himself to answer Nat, “We got it.”

 

* * *

 

The tinted visor of the helmet darkens the brightness that bathes the city. The sky is somewhat cloudy, yet the sun still shines faintly, the streets of Washington DC that span below and around the highway are brimming with life. Several cars are dispersed through the highway, calmly driving by and away.

You’re currently on the leather seat of the Harley Davidson Steve borrowed you, the engine’s rumbling echoing through the air as you drive. The sun hitting the motorcycle’s gas tank between your legs blinds you for a couple seconds, before your eyes settle in the black Chevrolet in front of you. You’re following Steve, Natasha and Sam to the SHIELD headquarters, where they plan to use Sitwell to overwrite Project Insight. _You_ plan to find Pierce and ask him a few questions about the Winter Soldier.

It’s been about 15 minutes on the road. Quiet and uneventful 15 minutes, save for a few bad drivers on the way. Spring is _definitely_ approaching the city, you can tell by the shine that has set upon your skin and the heat you feel in your helmet covered head.

Huffing, you slide up the helmet’s visor. The wind soothes your burning skin, and for a bit you savor the pleasant feeling. In front of you, Sam’s gaze connects with yours through the mirror, and he nods, silently signaling everything’s alright.

 

Your eyes open lazily from a blink and suddenly Jasper Sitwell is being hit by a truck on the other side of the road. Your breathing becomes heavier as you spot the brunette assassin perched on top of Sam’s car, shooting aimlessly through the roof. The gloves’ fabric slides against your sweaty palms, your grip faltering slightly on the steering handles.

The assassin is further ahead, now standing in the middle of the traffic lane, his chocolate hair waving in front of the goggles.

That day in Kazakhstan flashes briefly in your mind, the patches of skin that once held wounds seem to pulse when you lay eyes on the Soldier. A fire spurts in your chest and your eyes twinkle in determination.

Cars speed by your side, the panic in the drivers’ faces reflecting off the rear view mirrors. Suddenly, a big jeep barely avoids you, hitting the back of Sam’s car brutally. The smell of burnt rubber fills your lungs and sparks fly around as the smaller car keeps being forced forward by the jeep.

Your hands tighten on the handles and you gain speed, reaching the jeep’s side. You take off the helmet quickly and toss it on the road, finally being able to hear the muffled curse words and grunts of struggle coming from Sam’s car ahead.

The motorcycle jiggles in the asphalt as you plant one foot on its seat and snatch your bayonet knife from its holster on your thigh. You keep one controlling hand on the handle, shifting your gaze from the road to your hand as you stab the knife onto the roof of the jeep, to use as some sort of leverage. Before you can shift your body to it, bullets brake the tinted glass window you’re leaning against. The bike escapes your hold and is left behind stumbling in the road as a familiar, yet no less piercing pain shoots through your upper left arm.

Your body hits the side of the jeep with a loud thud, a yelp leaving your mouth as your right arm that’s supporting all your weight sprains painfully. The jeep keeps its speed, the wind rustling your hair in the air annoyingly, but also relieving the agonizing pain that throbs on your shot arm.

Mere inches away from the asphalt flashing below, your feet struggle with finding support, wiggling in the air until you’re finally able to perch one of them on the door handle, leaving your torso vulnerable to the HYDRA agents inside the jeep. They shoot a couple stray bullets that miss your body before you reach for the pistol on your thigh. With trembling fingers, you press the trigger a few times, that’s enough of a distraction for you to manage to hoist yourself up to the roof of the car. You land on your back and heave tiredly for a few seconds, ignoring completely the bloodied fissure in your arm, though you wince at the pain it causes.

Your gaze shifts ahead and you sit upright immediately, eyes widening and mouth agape once you spot Sam’s car swerving on the road and eventually toppling over. Then, your eyes move closer and you see the Winter Soldier landing on the jeep’s windshield with his head turned to you.

You’re gripping the bayonet stuck on the roof so you don’t fall off, and the Soldier’s metal arm is holding onto the jeep as well. You shoot at him with the pistol already on your hand, cursing under your breath when he switches arms and deflects the bullets with his metal prosthesis. When he reaches for the submachine gun strapped to his back, you take the smaller knife attached to your ankle and throw it at him. The tinted blade sheathes in his Kevlar vest. It doesn’t do any damage, but it’s enough so that when his gaze shifts to it, you’re able to slide further down the roof, aided by the car’s abrupt stop, and kick his chest. He stumbles to the ground in front of the jeep, rising swiftly not even a second later, chest heaving with rage, eyes searching frantically for your form on the jeep’s roof. Only you’re no longer there. Neither is your bayonet, only the scar it left on the grey coated metal.

Immediately, the HYDRA agents step out and begin to make their way towards Steve, Nat and Sam, while handing new weapons to the assassin. Besides the Winter Soldier, you count 5 agents from your place under the jeep. 4, now that you’ve gotten up and silently jammed the serrated bayonet in the neck of one of them who had fallen behind.

_Sorry Steve._

Explosions have started to erupt and bullets flying all around. People’s screams and wails are heard in the street as the cars on the other side of the road drive by wildly. As the men walk along the road, you follow behind quietly, alternating between cars for cover. An explosion rocks the concrete under your feet, sending Steve flying off the bridge. You see Natasha jumping off too, the Winter Soldier soon following. As the agents approach the edge and stick their climbing axes into the cars, your gaze catches Sam’s, hidden behind a van with a knife in hand. You smirk and await his move.

3 men jump down, one of them holding a mini-gun and soon enough the weapon’s screech is heard all around. The last agent on the bridge is testing the axe’s grip when Sam kicks him of his balance and proceeds to punch him. He then slices across the man’s chest and kicks him off the bridge, grabbing an M4 off the agent’s hand.

You emerge from behind a car and walk up to Sam, patting his back, “Didn’t know you liked knives.”

Sam looks at knife on his hand and shrugs as he holsters it. Looking at you over his shoulder, he adjusts the gun he’s holding when his eyes settle on your arm. The bullet tore a hole in both your jackets and there’s a line of blood trailing down from it, “When did _that_ happen?”

“Don’t worry about it, Sam.” You say, turning slightly to hide the wound as you holster the pistol you’d been holding. You reach for the rope on the ground with your ‘good arm’ and fasten its hook to your belt hoop, “It was barely a graze.” You attempt a grin to mask the pain, but all you manage is a lopsided smile that doesn’t reach your eyes the slightest.

Sam sees right through your attempt, his brows furrowing, “Uh, yeah, it doesn’t look like a graze.” He nods towards your arm as he lowers the gun, “Are you sure y-”

You prop your foot on the edge and shake your head dismissively, to which Sam nods, though warily. He soon begins to shoot at one of the agents below the bridge and you see that as your cue to leave. You jump down and as soon as your feet hit the ground you cut the rope and run. Flinching and dodging when bullets cut the air nearby, you don’t stop and soon Steve is at your side with his shield in a position where it protects both of you while you run.

After about 5 minutes, you and the Captain reach a mess of discarded cars and smoke and stop. Your hand flies to your arm to apply pressure, eyes narrowing from both the discomfort and rummaging the streets. Seconds later, you distinguish the Winter Soldier’s bulky figure amongst fleeing civilians, and Natasha’s much slimmer bod huddled behind a car. 

“Steve!” You nudge the Captain’s arm as you head towards them.

“Get to Romanoff!” He orders, shifting his course to the Winter Soldier’s location.

Steve soon begins to fight the Soldier, so you take the opportunity to take Nat the furthest away from them as possible. You place her unhurt arm around your shoulders and lift her waist, earning a gasp from the redhead. As you drag her through the street, you hear the clashing of metals and several grunts and groans coming from behind you.

Natasha starts muttering protests, so you ease her down behind a car, “Go help Steve.” She nods towards where you came from, her hand flying to her shot shoulder.

“Nat-”

“Go, I’m fine.” She insists, and even slightly drained out, her gaze is still fierce.

Sighing, you get up and observe as Steve and the Soldier approach the road you’re in. There are still people fleeing through the streets while you sneak in between abandoned cars and trucks, hoping you’re able to flank the Soldier once he’s close enough.

Silence seems to settle in DC when the fight seizes, Steve and the Soldier left standing in front of each other. In cover a few meters behind the Winter Soldier, you observe confused as the frown in Steve’s features deepens. His chest heaves intensely, his pink lips agape, “Bucky?”

“Who the hell is Bucky?” The Soldier’s grip on his weapon falters slightly, before he aims at Steve. Sam shows up in his wings and kicks the assassin, who flies backwards. When he gets to his feet and aims at Steve once again, a rocket destroys the truck that’s next to him and in front of you, causing a dense cloud of smoke to form.  

The Soldier runs by you towards an alleyway, looking over his shoulder with a scowl when your own feet are heard on the concrete behind him.

“Guys!?” Quick huffs exit your mouth as you chase the assassin. You turn a corner, one hand on the brick wall so you steady yourself and the other on the intercom in your ear, “I got eyes on the Soldier, I’m in pursuit!” The silence stretches on, no response coming from the other side. The Soldier is starting to gain some distance. _Shit-_ “Guys?!”

_“Don’t hurt him!”_

It relieves you to hear Steve’s voice coming through the com, although it is laced with desperation. “Steve, _argh_ -” You jump over a trashcan that the Soldier kicked to the ground and dodge a garbage bag he throws at you next, “ _What_ are you saying?” You reply harshly, picking off a twinkie’s plastic wrap that got caught in your hair.

_“Do not hurt him, do you hear me?!”_ When you don’t respond immediately, Steve calls your name despondently, sirens ringing in the background, _“Do you hear me?”_

Does Steve know this guy? Your first instinct is to think the Captain lied to you, that he’s affiliated with the assassin, but the nostalgia and confusion that crossed his features as he gazed to the Soldier tells you he’s just as clueless as you are.

Through the com along with the sirens, muffled noises are heard for a few seconds, before the two beeps that signal disconnection sound. Confused, worried, but also slightly annoyed you take the gadget off your ear and toss it on the ground in front of you, your boot stomping it as you continue your pursuit.

You can only see the Soldier faintly, turning a corner at the end of the alleyway, you having fallen behind meanwhile. The brick buildings that stretch almost endlessly so close to each other, create a claustrophobic atmosphere around you. There’s no way you’re catching up with him, so you decrease your speed, falling into a walking pace as you try to catch your breath. Pebbles roll under your boots as you stroll, your hand coming up to wipe away the sweat from your brow. Short pants ease in and out your mouth, chest heaving franticly. Strands of hair cling onto the back of your neck and a few stray ones to your temples, as do your clothes to your skin although not only from the sweat. You reach the end of the alleyway, in front of you spanning an open area. On the dirt is debris, dispersed against the back of the buildings are several trashcans and garbage containers. Attached to the walls are a few working vents, their humming assaulting your ears constantly. Your gaze flickers across, to the tunnel that accesses the other side of the buildings. Water drips inside it, but you assume that’s where the Soldier escaped through.

“Fuck!” Furious, you punch the brick wall to your side with your left fist, crying out when the seemingly numbed pain resurfaces in your arm. Your heavy breathing continues as you slide down the wall and begin to shrug off your perforated leather jacket, letting it fall to the ground. The military green hoodie is revealed, your whole upper left arm damp in crimson. You release a shaky breath and lean your head back as you remove the hoodie as well, the fabric now slightly attached, ripping off your skin with a screech. You prop your forearm on your knee and roll the short sleeve up your shoulder. You access the fissure. The bullet is still sheathed inside your arm, its metallic round form standing out amongst the torn skin and flesh, blood smeared all around it.

The pounding of your heart in your ears and the heavy breaths leaving your mouth drown the world around you. The water dripping in the distance, the vents’ humming, and especially the almost silent steps that approach.

You rise your head slowly when black combat boots enter your field of vision, your hand sliding down your leg in search for the knife’s handle. Your gaze sweeps up clothed legs, a familiar Kevlar vest and a curled fist. Your breath catches in your throat once your eyes meet the Winter Soldier’s icy blue ones.

The pistol he aims at your head is hard to miss too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me awhile to get this out! This chapter was a bit harder to write for some reason, and I was computer-less last week. It's here though! Hopefully you guys like it, I'm excited for the upcoming Reader/Bucky interactions eheh


	11. Chapter 11

Seconds pass where the only sound heard is echoing of the water droplets falling on the puddles inside the tunnel, in rhythm with the heavy breaths leaving your mouth. Your gaze is still connected to the Soldier’s, both stunned with each other’s presence.

Slowly, you place your hand flat on the wall behind you, using it as support as you stand up. The pistol aimed at you rises with your body, the Soldier’s metal fingers tensing with your movement. Both jackets stay discarded at your feet as you stand on wobbly legs, the wall’s raspy texture digging at your shoulder as you lean against it. The big amount of blood lost and the exhaustion from before is apparent when your vision becomes clouded and your head feels light. Your gaze disconnects from the assassin’s as you dart your head to the side and close your eyes tightly, trying to remain conscious. Short pants leave your mouth as you pray to whichever superior force there to not let you pass out now.

A faint warmth ghosts your forearm, wrapping around it seconds later. Your head jerks to the side again and your eyes open wide swiftly, landing where the Soldier’s flesh hand is clasped around your arm, the pistol lowered at his side.

Immediately, you yank your arm from his grasp and take a step to the side, mouth agape and eyes wide boring into his blue ones, shocked at the gesture, at the change in his demeanor. You’re not sure if he meant to help you stand or restrain you, but you’re not taking any chances. You set your jaw, left hand snatching the pistol on your thigh and aiming it at him.

The stoicism that had crossed the Soldier’s face vanishes, his brows plunging into a frown once again, jaw clenched and not uttering a word. His aim returns to your head, the gun on the same level as yours. However, his metal finger twitches away from the trigger, going straight along the barrel of the pistol.

Your hand flies to your left arm and applies pressure, your teeth gritting from the pain that has begun to grow and spread down your arm. Shivers and a cold sweat descend from the back of your damp neck throughout your body as you feel the metal bullet move inside the flesh of your arm. As you bite your lip, your nostrils flare, anger growing with the Soldier’s silence, “Why did you kill Fury?!”

His gaze shifts to the ground, “Ty ne moya missiya…” He mutters, before his greyish orbs return to yours and he repeats louder, “You’re not my mission.”

Your gaze flickers between his wide eyes to the pistol that is no longer aimed at you, but holstered in his thigh. He gives you one final look and turns, intending to leave. He sounds and looks almost like a machine, body rigid and actions automatic.

_Weird._

Keeping your aim, you step forward. You’re not letting him get away this time, “I got some questions for you and I’d appreciate if you’d answer them.” The Soldier stops, but doesn’t turn around. “Why did you kill Fury?” You ask, your voice harsh, eyes glaring at the back of his head.

“I don’t know.” He mumbles, almost inaudibly, his head tilted forward.

“What do you mean _you don’t know_?” You pry, taking another step towards his back, the fear you once felt for him vanishing as you observe this vulnerable side of his persona.

“I don’t know!” He repeats louder, still not facing you.

You purse your lips out of annoyance, knuckles turning white. This guy is so unpredictable. One minute he’s adamant in killing you, the next he acts like a puppy, attempting to help others and looking lost.

The interaction between the Soldier and the Captain returns to your thoughts. Curiosity starts to make its way into your mind, so you decide to change the subject, “How does _Steve_ know _you_?”

“I-I… Who’s Steve?” He asks, confusion lacing his tone as he looks over his shoulder at your approaching form.

Your brows furrow, head shaking lightly as you loop around the Soldier, now standing in front of him, “Steve. The blondie you fought like 10 minutes ago?”

“The man on the bridge?” He lifts his head, although his brown hair conceals part of his features. You can perceive one of his big eyes staring at you, and only you, ignoring completely the gun that has its aim resting on his wrinkled forehead.

Frustrated, you huff, shifting in place, “Okay, you’re not helping.” You pause and gaze at him for a few seconds, your heart twitching when faced with the emotions that swim in his eyes. Pain, guilt, regret, loneliness. The same as last time you laid eyes upon him years ago. Some sort of compassion overcomes you. _He looks disturbed, he probably needs help,_ is what you say to yourself to justify your actions next. Steve wants this man alive and well, why else can that be?

Reluctantly, you lower your pistol, not wanting him to become hostile when it’s time to arrest him. Calmly, you ask, “Who’s Bucky?”

You must have gone straight to a touchy subject from the way his chest inflates with ragged breaths, and the tension that has washed upon his features. His jaw ticks, nostrils flaring, “I DON’T KNOW!” He punches the wall behind him, his metal fist returning from the impact covered in dust and wall pieces.

You flinch as bits of brick fly by you. Gulping, you breathe deeply and take a step backwards, lifting your weapon once again, “I need you to calm down and think.” You say steadily, cursing yourself inwards for attempting to reason with the assassin, “Who’s Bucky?”

He takes a step towards you, his hands curled into fists, a snarl on his features. The Winter Soldier resurfaces in the man with all his might, the expression his eyes adopt akin to a lion’s gaze as it observes its prey. His repeated huffs are drowned by the engines of black trucks that suddenly come through the tunnel and park near you.

_Fuck-_

You place yourself between the wall and the Soldier, who seems to have been plugged off with the new arrivals. He stands motionless, his gaze trained on the ground as if awaiting an order. Your gun is no longer aiming at his head, but slightly to the left of his arm, at these new acquaintances. You peek from around him, careful to remain somewhat protected by the assassin’s body.

Out of the truck exit a few agents, several of their faces familiar from your brief time at the SHIELD headquarters. One of the guys stands out from the others, like he’s the one giving the orders. As soon as his eyes land on you, a smirk pulls at his lips. His squared jaw is adorned with dark stubble, same shade as his hair. The muscles under his sleek black uniform move as he crosses his arms, boots slumping on the dirt when he stops a couple meters away from where the Soldier stands immobile, “Well, well, what do we have here?”

His gruff voice sends shivers down your spine as you maintain your stance, despite your slightly trembling hands. The way his dark eyes look you over has you fighting the urge to squirm in place. With a scowl on your features, you grip the pistol harder and cock the hammer, “Back off.”

This has him snorting, hands lifting in the air in a mocking surrendering manner, “Soldier,” The guy’s eyes unlock from yours with interest, landing on the Soldier with disdain, “Arrest her.”

 

* * *

 

You’re tossed into an old chair in the corner of the room, your wrists immediately zip-tied together by the man you’ve now learned is Brock Rumlow, STRIKE’s leader and designated asshole. Around you, several metallic drawers are opened and broken, their surface reflecting the yellow light that falls from above. The room is continually flooded by other agents, who place themselves around the entrance, their hands firmly gripping the weapons they carry. From amongst them, the Winter Soldier resurfaces, striding to a chair placed in the middle of the room. As men in lab coats enter, he takes off the attire covering his torso and sits. The men begin to work on his metal arm and silence fills the room, save for the whirring and buzzing coming from the prosthesis. Rumlow, who is at your side overseeing the Soldier, turns, intending to head for the exit but your small voice stops him.

“I’m bleeding out.” You lift your head, eyes narrowing when assaulted with the bright lighting of the place. A grunt heaves past your mouth as you straighten up, the pain burning your arm worsening with the position you’re in, “You have to remove the bullet.”

Rumlow huffs, glancing at the exit and back at you. He crouches, your legs flinching when he props his elbows on your knees, “Really sweetheart?” He grabs your arm and twists it, so he can see the soon to be infected entry wound, “And why would I do that?”

A strangled whimper leaves you as you grit your teeth together. Unfocused, behind Rumlow, you notice the Soldier’s brief gaze before a hand clasps around his jaw, turning his head forward again. You glare at Rumlow through your watering eyes, twisting your body hastily so his hand leaves your arm, “So I might be quick when I fucking kill you.”, you spat.

Rumlow’s shit-eating grin vanishes from his lips as he stands. He grabs your face forcefully with bruising strength, turning it slightly so he can lean closer to your ear, “If you weren’t such a bitch, I might’ve actually liked you.” His hand drops from your face to clasp around your arm and squeeze tightly, a satisfied expression crossing his features as he hears the small yelp you let out and the stray tear that rolls down your cheek. He turns around and heads for the exit, gesturing nonchalantly towards you as he calls one of the lab coats, “Take care of her arm.”

The doctor approaches you cautiously, pulling the stool he was sitting in with him. Out of his lab coat’s pocket he takes a few tools and begins to treat your arm. You lean your head back and close your eyes, breath catching in your throat a few times when the man touches a particularly sensitive spot of the wound.

You ease in and out of consciousness for what it could have been 10 minutes, or an hour, you’re not really sure, but you’re awaken abruptly by screams, your eyes opening swiftly and body jumping against the restraints. Your chest rises quickly as your eyes swipe across the room, barely noticing the bandage around your arm or the pain that seems to have been stripped away. Your eyes land on the suited man that leaves the room, along with a few STRIKE agents before your gaze moves to the machine that whirrs and the man pinned below it. A gasp leaves your mouth as you notice the chocolate strands resting against the chair.

Steve’s words echo in your head.

_Don’t hurt him!_

You don’t know what kind of relationship the Soldier has with Steve, but by the desperation and despair present in the Captain’s voice, you assume it must be a close one. He asked you not to hurt the Soldier, so you didn’t. But now you must stop HYDRA from doing it too. 

“What’re you doing?” You lean to the side, catching a glimpse of the Soldier’s heaving chest. You don’t get an answer, so you struggle in your seat and manage to scrape the chair across the floor slightly, even though you doubt they heard it amongst the screams, “Hey! What the fuck are you doing to him?!” You fight against the restraints, a frown etched onto your face as the Soldier’s hoarse screams bounce off the walls. The STRIKE agents remain immobile, ignoring your protests and shouts, so you fall back onto the chair, focusing on trying to slip a hand out of the zip-tie.

You’re not sure how much time has passed, all you know is your ears are starting to hurt from the constant screaming, although successfully you managed to loosen up the restraints.

Finally, the machine stops buzzing and retracts to its previous place. The Soldier’s heavy breaths are heard, soft whimpers along with them. One of the STRIKE agents looks behind his shoulder at the brunette’s exhausted form and signals to the others with his hand.

The door bounces close and you’re left alone with the Winter Soldier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I'm so sorry that this took so long to post, but travelling implicated being without a computer, so I only managed to write the last few paragraphs today.  
> I have to admit that I am loosing a bit of motivation with this work, I KNOW, I'M SORRY, I hate myself for it. On the other hand, I got extremely inspired and started writing _another_ Bucky/Reader fic. I suck for putting this one on pause, I know. So I'll probably be posting that new fic in the near future. I'll try to gain inspiration and continue this AS I'm writing the other one, but if I fail, you all have my word that I will pick this up again AFTER the other is finished.  
>  Thank you all so much for the support, and I'm sorry for being such a terrible writer ahhhh forgive me


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ɪᴍ sᴏʀʀʏ ᴛʜɪs ᴛᴏᴏᴋ sᴏ ʟᴏɴɢ

You stand, careful to not startle the Soldier. Your hand rubs the opposite wrist, the skin raw and irritated from the tight zip-tie. Only his back is seen from where you’re standing, so slowly, you walk round the chair and eventually his front comes into view. His chest heaves frantically, sweaty hair covering most of his face. Deep huffs exit through the Soldier’s mouth, blue hooded eyes stoic, fixated on the wall in front of him. Sweat causes his pale skin to glisten, the bright lightning of the room reflecting on it. It would be almost… dazzling, if it weren’t for the circumstances.

“Oh god… What did they do to you?” You whisper, bending slightly to get a better look at the man. He doesn’t move, only keeps his eyes emotionless, never straining from the wall.

As you lift your arm, a hint of pain pulses, reminding you of the wound. You resort to your other hand to run through your hair, turning away from the Soldier when he gives no reply.

Your eyes run over the room, from the trashed drawers to the screens displayed across the place, surveying and analyzing for possible ways to escape. Being bleeding out when you first stepped through that door didn’t allow you to see much, so now, when you notice the metal bars that it’s made of, you curse.

You’re in a vault.

_Nothing_ comes in or out of a locked vault. You learned that the hard way.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” You hiss, placing your hand in front of your mouth to muffle the sound.

There’s definitely no getting out through there, unless the door is open, and after sweeping your eyes over the room again, you realize there’s no getting out any other way.

_Oh I’m so fucked. Is this how I’m going to die? By HYDRA’s hands? After everything? Wade would have a laugh at that._

You assume you have a few minutes until the agents return, so you pace around the room thinking of how you’re going to play this. You settle with your hands, and your knives of course, seeing as HYDRA was dumb enough not to take them from you, thinking you’d be arrested all the time. You’re going the old-fashioned way.

Approaching the Soldier, you crouch in front of him, sighing when his eyes look right past you, “Hey… I’m uh- I’m gonna get us out of here, okay?” _Is he even listening?_

Soon, you hear footsteps approaching the vault and quickly, you make your way back into the chair, mimicking as if your hands were still tied back, one of them holding the combat knife previously on your hip.

Rumlow unlocks the door and steps inside, two STRIKE agents trailing behind him. That grin of his resurfaces in his features as his eyes settle on you, the agents moving to the Winter Soldier, “How are you doing, sweetheart?”

You keep quiet, biting your cheek to keep any replies from being voiced. Rumlow approaches you, grabbing your face swiftly when you attempt to turn away, “Aren’t you gonna answer me?”

“Go to hell.” You spat as you glare at the man.

He chuckles, pursing his lips afterwards, “Keep an eye on her.” One of the agents moves to your side as Rumlow heads towards the center of the room. You track his back as he moves away, however, your gaze flickers to the side when you notice him pulling one of the stools and settling in front of the Soldier. He snatches a red journal from his back pocket and opens it.

“Zhelaniye.” _Longing._

The Soldier’s metal fingers twitch.

“Rzhavyy.” _Rusted._

A grunt leaves past his mouth.

“Semnadtsat'.” _Seventeen._

His head whips to the side.

“Rassvet.” _Daybreak._

Metal fingers curl.

“Pech’.” _Furnace._

His breathing becomes labored.

“Devyat’.” _Nine._

A hoarse shout leaves the Soldier’s throat, causing you to flinch. Your lips part but before your voice sounds the agent next to you already has his gun against your forehead.

“Dobroserdechnyy.” _Benign._ Rumlow continues, a grin etching onto his features when the Soldier punches one of the screens nearby.

The assassin becomes unstable, moving forward on his seat. Rumlow rolls the stool backwards, lifting a hand to stop the other agents from approaching as he cites the words quickly, “Vozvrashcheniye na rodinu. Odin. Gruzovoy vagon.” _Homecoming. One. Freight car._ The Soldier stills and Rumlow closes the journal, crossing his arms with it in hand, “Soldat?”

“Ya gotov otvechat’.” _Ready to comply._

“Good.” Rumlow nods, turning to you with a grin. Your gazes cross for a split second before the smirk on his lips vanishes, his eyes landing on your unbound hand emerging from behind your back. Your fingers curl, fist connecting with the jaw of the agent in front of you. When the stunned man lifts the weapon in his hand, you push it to the side with your forearm, a gunshot echoing through the room. The bullet sheaths itself on the drawers behind you as you slash your knife across the man’s neck. He’s swept off his feet by your leg and lands on the floor with a thud, choking on his own blood.

Rumlow places himself behind the Soldier, jaw set as his hand grips the latter’s shoulder, “Do you wanna have another go with the Asset, huh?” He shoves the assassin forward and you take a step back, eyes flickering between the Soldier’s hardened features and Rumlow’s teasing ones. One of your feet is placed in front of you, your black boots contrasting against the dull, grey floor while your hand still holds the combat knife, knuckles turning white. Rumlow grins with your movement, eyes looking over your form, “Heard it didn’t go so well last time.”

“Fuck you.” You spat, jaw setting right after. The tension in the air is thick, only each other’s ragged breathing being heard. When you notice the other agent in the room moving to your left, you lift the knife in front of you, lips curled into a snarl, “Don’t fucking come near me.”

He keeps his aim on you, taking careful steps your way until Rumlow stops him, “Don’t.” His attention returns to you, “Careful. You’ll hurt yourself, waving that around.”

A flick of your wrist is all it takes for the knife previously in your hand to be lodged inside the agent’s skull. As his lifeless body topples to the floor, you kick one of the stools towards Rumlow, the sudden distraction enough for you to retrieve the knife.

You return to your stance, as does Rumlow to his behind the Soldier. A deep breath eases past your nose, nostrils flaring in annoyance, “Let him go.”

He snorts.

“Let him go or I swear I’ll fucking kill you.”

“You kill me, and then what? Huh? Leave the vault with the Asset? You think it’s that fucking simple, don’t you? I don’t know what Cap’s been telling you, but you’re incredibly misinformed, sweetheart.” He chuckles at your expression, sensing that he’s hit a nerve, “With your ambition and skill you’d make a good ally, you know that?” He shakes the Soldier roughly, the latter’s chocolate locks bouncing in front of his emotionless face, “Maybe even a partner for the Soldier here.”

Your jaw tenses, gaze still boring deep onto Rumlow’s brown eyes.

He hangs his head when you don’t reply, lips pursing slightly, “Your loss.” Eyes never leaving yours, he nods to the assassin, “Immobilize her.”

The first step the Soldier takes has you backing against the wall, the edges of the different opened and closed drawers digging onto your back. You duck when he attempts a punch, rolling to the side quickly, “Please stop!” The assassin tears his fist from the drawers, striding towards you once again. His brow is furrowed, jaw set and expression so emotionless like that day in Kazakhstan, so you loop around the chair you were previously bound to, keeping it between you and the assassin. To the front of the room you hear the door unlocking: your opportunity to leave, with or without the Soldier.

A shaky sigh eases past your parted lips, your attention returning to the shirtless assassin coming your way, “I don’t want to hurt you-” He doesn’t stop, both fists curled at his side as he heads towards you. You kick the chair his way, a grunt leaving him when it hits his knees, successfully staggering his movement for a couple seconds.

Taking advantage of the situation, you run past the Soldier and head for the door. The steps behind you don’t falter until a boot cladded foot suddenly crosses your way, causing you to trip. Your forearms connect with the floor harshly, knife escaping your hold and a scream ripping past your throat at the pain that shoots down your shot arm. Metal fingers curl around your ankle and pull, your hands scraping blindly over the floor, trying to grip something. Ragged pants leave past your lips as you look over your shoulder. The Soldier has a curtain of hair obscuring his face, steely blue eyes cast down, “Please, listen to me! I’m trying to help you- _Steve_ wants to help you- Argh- _Bucky-”_ Abruptly, the movement halts, your foot dropping to the floor. You turn and scramble away, pulling your knees up before you look up at the assassin. His eyes are wide, mouth agape as he stares down at you through the sweaty chocolate tendrils in front of his eyes. Even Rumlow has stopped, the door half open in front of him.

The Soldier takes a step back, the same stunned look on his features as you get up quickly and move towards the exit. Rumlow steps outside quickly when he sees you approaching, the door not closing only due to the foot you manage to slide outside. You pull the door open forcefully with all your strength, an exasperated shout leaving your mouth. Once you step out, you land a punch to Rumlow’s nose, catching a glimpse of his surprised expression before you kick his stomach.

He bends over wheezing, tripping on his own feet and toppling to the floor unconscious a couple meters to your front.

You place your hands on your knees, taking a couple deep breaths before straightening up again. Your fingers ghost over the now bloodied bandage covering the fissure in your arm as you start to make your way to the building’s exit. You cast a look over your shoulder: through the bars you see the Soldier with his back to you, rigid shoulders slumping with each breath.


	13. Chapter 13

After you left the bank you made your way back to Sam’s house through the dark Washington DC alleyways.

After a couple of hours of walking blindly through DC, you managed to reach Sam’s neighborhood. And that’s where you stand right now with your eyes drooping as they survey the area. The exposed skin of your arms is covered in goosebumps due to the cold air that blows, the gunshot wound throbbing under the bandage.

No one’s home as you figured so after trying the front door, you walk around to the back, hoping Sam left this one open. He didn’t. You snatch one of the shirts hanging outside and roll it around your fist, bracing the other on the wall. However, as your arm swings a loud _meow_ is heard to your side.

Your head whips to the side, eyes wide searching the grass and bushes where you see Chip emerge from.

The grass gets bunched under his little paws as he strolls towards where you are, now on your knees.

“Oh baby…” You pick Chip up and hold him closely to your chest, cheek resting against the top of his head. Tears grow in your eyes for a moment as you hug him, this little part of Wade you thankfully are able to keep, reminding you how much you miss him. You sniff and chuckle when the cat starts to wiggle in your grasp, but your brow furrows right after, “How did you get out here?”

You rise to your feet with Chip held against you despite his protests, and start walking around the house looking for another entry point. Now that you think about it, breaking a glass door during the night wasn’t the smartest idea. The exhaustion, hunger and desperation are really catching up to you, aren’t they?

“Stop being a little shit.” You hiss at Chip when he squirms too much in your hold. He meows and bites your finger, causing you to drop him on the grass. As you let out an annoyed sigh, he lands graciously and scampers a few meters to the front before jumping to the window sill nonchalantly. You stop in front of the window and let an incredulous laugh when you notice Chip slip inside through the small gap.

At least you won’t have to hear Sam yell at you for breaking in.

 

* * *

 

_“So, what’s her role in all of this?”_

_“She’s just a kid, I don’t see how Fury thought sending her after Bucky was a good idea.”_

_“You’re underestimating her, Steve. You’ve seen her in combat, you know damn well she’s capable of handling herself.”_

You groan slightly, cheek against the pillow as your eyes flutter open. Your arm is sprawled to the side, dry blood still coating part of your skin. The muffled voices keep being heard through the door as you prop yourself on your unhurt arm and swing your legs over the edge of the bed. Your boot cladded feet hit the ground with a thud.

Oh yeah… you didn’t take those off last night.

Chip comes in through the gap in the door and jumps on the bed, one of your hands coming up to pet his fur as the other rubs your temple.

You get to your feet and open the door slowly, eyes squinting due to the brightness. When they adjust, you go downstairs and come face to face with the trio. Natasha and Steve have looks of slight worry on their features, their gazes alternating between your arm and your body propped against the railing. Sam however, has his arms crossed over his chest, head shaking slightly.

He’s the one who breaks the silence, “I just wanna know how you got in.”

You huff and walk past them to sit on one of the dining chairs. A groan leaves your throat as you slump on the chair and reach for the cookie jar nearby, “You left one of the windows open, smartass.”

Sam’s expression changes into a mix of surprise and offense, eyes open wide before they squint, gaze focused on your hand digging into the jar. Steve sighs quietly, “What happened yesterday?”

Your gaze moves from Sam’s arched eyebrow to Steve’s calm and somewhat sympathetic features, “I should be the one asking you that.” There’s something you’re not being told, and you know it, so you maintain your expression passive, your eyes connected to Steve’s.

He glances at Natasha to his side before looking at you, “Rumlow got us, but we managed to escape.” His gaze moves to the ground as he makes his way to the kitchen counter, hands propped on the marble, “And Fury… Fury’s not dead.”

You’re not sure if you should be surprised or just roll your eyes at Fury’s antics. Although you can’t blame him. You can’t kill someone who’s already dead.

“What about the Soldier? You said you were in pursuit.” Natasha moves closer, one of her hands resting on top of the chair in front of you while the other pushes a few strands of hair behind her ear.

The red head’s voice brings your attention back to her, so you straighten your posture, “I was, until I lost him. When I was trying to take care of this,” You briefly point at the bandage around your arm, “He showed up again and started acting… strange, for lack of a better term.” You turn your attention to Steve, “He said he didn’t know you.”

“You spoke to him?” Steve asks, disbelief lacing his tone.

“Steve, who is he?” You ask finally, ignoring his previous question. When the blonde tenses under your gaze, you purse your lips and breathe deeply, “And who’s Bucky?”

* * *

 

The helicopter tilts violently and Sam comes flying in. The resistance offered by the metal door is enough so that when it breaks your hands are already clutching Sam’s arm. Your whole body is pressed against the side of the helicopter, arms spraining painfully due to Sam’s weight, but moments later Natasha is at your side pulling the Falcon inside.

“41st floor, 41st!” Sam yells after he’s pulled in, hands reaching for support frantically in the air.

He receives an annoyed look from Fury as he latter puts the helicopter into commotion again, “It’s not like they put the numbers on the _outside_ of the building.”

Natasha speaks into the intercom, asking for Steve’s location as Sam heaves in front of you, his back to the helicopter’s wall as his hand clutches at his ribs. He nods at you with a brief smirk which you return, giving him a pat on the shoulder.

You slide the headset back onto your head, looking out of the door opening at your side. One of your hands is pressed against the helicopter’s side, the other gripping one of the handles nearby as your eyes witness the helicarrier Steve’s on breaking apart on air above you, its parts crashing onto the Potomac river below, “You have to get us on land.” You repeat louder, “You have to get us on land, now!” When you look over your shoulder, Fury has his gaze is on you, “The helicarrier is falling apart, Steve might be hurt bad. We have to find him.”

The helicopter begins its descend near the edges of the river, the bushes and leaves nearby rustling. When it’s hovering above ground you jump out, hands patting your thighs, instinctively checking your gear. You turn around and notice no one else is on land.

Upon your frown, Natasha signals you closer, “Sam is in no shape to walk around, but I’ll be searching the other margin.” Nat nods and her lips curl in a small smile, touching her ear with two fingers, “We’ll keep in touch.”

A shuddered breath parts your lips as you take a couple steps backwards, watching the helicopter ascend and fly away. The trees still after a few seconds, the water to your right rocking when the occasional helicarrier parts fall in the river. Your boots dig into the dirt as you walk along the water, hand on the pistol that Natasha gave you.

You come to a stop after a few minutes of walking around, hand running down your face in an attempt to chase away the fatigue. For a moment all you hear is the slight rustling of leaves in the wind, the faint crackling of destruction in the distance and the stomping of dirt.

_Wait-_

Your feet pick up the pace and lead you towards the sound, where the trees become less abundant. You inhale sharply when you see Steve laying in the riverside, the water coming and going at his feet. You are at his side in a second, knees digging into the dirt as you check his pulse. A sigh of relief leaves through your mouth when you feel the steady beating of his heart.

“Nat!”, Your hand flies to the comm in your ear, calling the redhead urgently, “Nat, Steve’s unconscious and hurt. I’m at the-” Your voice dies in your throat when you lift your head and see the Winter Soldier walking away a few meters to your front, his right arm around his middle.

 _“What’s your location?”_ Natasha’s voice has you looking back down at Steve’s pale and bruised face. The blood smudged across his skin mixes with the water, shallow breaths easing through his parted lips.

“East of the Triskelion. Search the riverside, you’ll see him immediately.” You stand, sparing a last look at Steve before walking towards the Soldier, “Hey.” He keeps on walking, not even sparing you a glance as you catch up to him, “Barnes.” His rhythm falters but he keeps on moving with you trailing behind, “Bucky!”

The Soldier turns around swiftly, stomping towards you with a scowl on his face, “Don’t call me that.”

As he comes towards you, you step backwards with your arms bent at the elbow in the air, palms facing him, and head cast down. A shaky breath makes its way past your mouth and you swallow hard after, “I just wanna help you.”

His heavy breaths are heard as you both stand there for a few seconds. You risk a glance at his face. His jaw is set, and he stares intently at you, “You’re not taking me back.” He says through gritted teeth, hands curled into fists.

“No, no, listen!” You say louder when he takes a step forward, “I’m not with HYDRA, I-I’m not with SHIELD either, alright? You see this?” You take the comm off your ear slowly and hold it for a moment before throwing it in the river, “It’s gone. No one will find us, okay? It’s just me.”

He doesn’t seem convinced as he stares down at you, nostrils flaring as he breathes deeply. Your eyes flicker to his flesh hand that’s reaching behind his back, emerging with a black tinted combat knife.

“Please don’t.” You say exasperatedly, arms lowering in case he attacks. The sound of the helicopter approaching is now heard in the distance, indicating you don’t have much time left if you’re planning on leaving this place, “Listen to me, Barnes, I’m your only hope right now, do you understand? I don’t know how the _fuck_ you think you’re leaving this country without an ID and with a fucking metal arm.” You hiss at him, gaze boring into his, “I’m doing this for Steve, alright? I’m willing to risk _my_ life to protect yours, but you better make up your mind because I’m getting the fuck outta here with or without you.”

After a few seconds of silence, his gruff voice is heard, “Why?” The Soldier’s gaze flickers from the metal prosthesis to you, his demeanor much calmer, like he’s realized the truth in your words. However, his eyes are still hard, surveying your features intently, “Why are you helping me?”

You briefly look over your shoulder at Steve’s unconscious form, a sigh easing past your lips, “He asked me to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY SO WE'RE DONE WITH DC (and CA: WS), AND WE'RE GOING BACK TO NY BITCHES, BUCKLE UP


	14. Chapter 14

Your fingers drum against the armrest, other hand resting against your stomach while your boot clad feet are firmly set on the floor. The sunglasses you swiped from a souvenir shop in DC perched on the bridge of your nose help to protect your tired eyes from the bright lights illuminating the train carriage.

A deep breath eases past your nostrils when you lull your head to the right, eyes landing on Bucky’s hunched form. His dark hair is gathered under the cap on his head, eyes shadowed due to how far the brim is pushed. A few strands fall on his stubbled jaw that clenches occasionally. He’s got both feet on the floor just like you, and his arms are crossed tightly across his chest, side pressed against the wall. It’s quiet in the carriage, save for the mumbling of other late night travelers and the humming of the engine. Bucky’s breathing seems steady, but you doubt he’s sleeping. You didn’t.

At least he hasn’t caused any more trouble in the few hours it’s been since the incident in the Potomac, doing what you say and mostly keeping to himself. The clothes you _borrowed_ from Sam’s house seem to fit him well, and he only hesitated for a second when you told him to take the window seat, in part so he could see the outside, but also so you’d be in between him and the path to the exit.

Your eyes wander from Bucky’s curled body to the window, where Manhattan’s skyscrapers are slowly coming into view in the distance, their lights a bright contrast against the night. A smile tugs at your lips, muscles relaxing a fraction at the familiar sight.

Minutes later, the final stop is announced through the speakers, so you quickly get up and grab your backpack from the overhead compartment, quickly looping your arms through the straps to get Chip next. When you lower the box, Bucky is standing in front of your seat with his arms straight at his side, patiently waiting for you to lead the way. You quickly glance away from his stoic features and exit the train, making sure he’s following with a quick glimpse to the side.

Once you’re both outside a big smile stretches your lips when a cab drives by and causes your hair to rustle in the air, the familiar streets and buildings spanning around you. You push the sunglasses to rest on your head and sigh, smile wavering now that you realize how long of a walk it is to where you’re going next.

Bucky doesn’t follow when you step further onto the sidewalk, so you glance over your shoulder with a brow raised. You try to conceal a grin when you catch his expression, wide eyes trying to take in his surroundings and full lips parted as his head moves slowly in all directions.

You whistle after a minute, head jerking towards the road when you get his attention. Soon Bucky is at your side once again as you walk down the street, hands stuffed inside his pockets and head cast down.

 

* * *

 

The neon glow emerging from the alleyway that leads to Sister Margaret’s door can be seen in the distance, as well as the several mercs that lean against the building next to it. A sigh of relief makes its way past your nostrils at the familiar surroundings, but nervousness soon replaces it. You just brought a wanted criminal to a place filled with mercenaries, and you have _no_ doubt Bucky probably has a bounty on his head, either from what’s left of SHIELD or HYDRA.

You close your eyes for a moment and take a deep breath, but your pace doesn’t slow. You can’t afford to waste any time. Tilting your head towards Bucky, you say quietly, “Don’t talk to anyone and stay behind me.” The grunt he gives you in acknowledgement is the best you’re going to get out of him, so you continue down the street.

As you approach, the men at the door nod and mumble greetings like you weren’t gone at all, although the multiple glances they send at Bucky’s concealed features don’t go unnoticed. You quickly push the door open with your forearm and hip, casually sending the guys one of your grins after Bucky shuffles past you.

Once inside, the smell of tobacco mixed with cheap alcohol immediately assaults your nose, as does Bucky’s judging by the grimace that twists his features.

You’re about to step into the main lounge area with Bucky close behind you, when Boothe rounds the corner. A brief yet joyful _How you doing?_ is voiced by the large man as he walks by you and Bucky’s forms, now pressed against the wall so there’s enough space for him in the hallway. You return the man’s smile with a tight lipped one for just a second before he enters the bathroom. 

_This was a terrible idea._

You take two steps back into the dark hallway and turn to Bucky, lips pursed in annoyance.

“Hey, I changed my mind. You’re gonna stay there and just… wait, alright?” The panicked expression that takes over Bucky’s features has you sighing, voice turning softer “Look I won’t take too long. No one’s gonna hurt you.” A particular loud laugh causes you to glance over your shoulder to where two drunk mercs are using the pool cues as pretend swords, “You’d like, fuck them up in a heartbeat- Right, sorry.” You add, after the pointed look the brunette sends your way.

You clean your throat and round the corner, shrugging off your backpack and settling it on the floor behind the counter. As you straighten up and slide into one of the stools, Weasel emerges from the other side of the counter.

You stare at him with lazy, half lidded eyes, brows slightly risen as you wait for the blonde to notice you.

“What can I get- Holy fuck!” Weasel gawks at you for a few seconds, mouth slightly agape and rag forgotten in his hands, “You’re alive!”

An amused huff leaves your throat as you reach for Chip’s box and place it on top of the counter, snatching the food bag off your jacket’s pocket, “Yeah.”

“No animals allowed-” Weasel interrupts himself and sighs tiredly after the glare he gets from you. His eyes soften, forearm resting on the counter as he leans towards you, “You alright? Can I get you anything?”

“I’m fine.” You reply shortly, lie rolling off your tongue easily even though your whole body is aching. You pour a few biscuits in your palm and hold it still, fighting a wince as you reach with your shot arm to open the box’s door. Chip peeks out, nose twitching for a moment before his snout digs into your hand. Your eyes shift back to Weasel, whose expression screams bullshit at your answer. Ignoring the look on his face, you continue, “I can’t stay for long though.” You try to nonchalantly glance over your shoulder to where Bucky stands leaning against the wall, quiet with his arms crossed over his chest and gaze cast down, “I-”

“He’s with you?” Weasel jerks his head towards the brunette, “Thought you knew better than to bring strangers here.” His voice is low and calm, but you hear the slight wariness in it. Blue eyes return to yours and a brow lifts, hands motioning in front of his face to the bruised areas of your own, “Tough job?”

Weasel snorts as you groan and close your eyes, “I don’t wanna talk about it.” You pet Chip and close the small door, crossing your arms on top of the counter, gaze fixated on it, “Look… Do you know where Wade is? When I left we weren’t on the best terms.”

The blonde scoffs and pushes himself off the counter, “Tell me about it.” Upon your questioning look, he continues, “He stopped by a couple nights, mumbling about how much of a dumbass you were for taking that job?”

You roll your eyes but can’t keep a smile for tugging at your lips.

_He’s not wrong._

After a pause you throw your hand in the air, “So?”

“Sorry...” His eyes squint behind the glasses, hand readjusting the rim as he focuses on the dark bruises on your jaw and the cuts on your cheek and brow, “You look like when bananas start going brown.” The unamused look on your face is enough to snap his attention back to you, “Oh, he’s out on a job, but I’ll tell him you’re back when he stops by.” Weasel throws the rag he was holding behind the counter, hands reaching for the bottles necessary for the drink that was just ordered by the guy at the end of the bar, “Isn’t that what phones are for, anyway?”

“I lost mine.” You shrug haphazardly. In reality, you threw it on the Potomac on purpose, fearing that it would be traceable, but Weasel doesn’t need to know that. As you slide off the stool, your eyes flicker to the Dead Pool above the cabinets, where your name remains written. The bet is higher now, still placed by Tad. You scoff, gaze sweeping the room to find the asshole.

For a second you almost miss his beard and blonde hair, dangerously close to where Bucky stands. You’re there in a second, pushing yourself in between both men smoothly. A forced smile stretches your lips as you turn to Tad, Bucky’s murderous glare focused on the blonde over your shoulder.

You swallow the curses on the tip of your tongue and keep smiling, “We were just leaving.”

“I should’ve figured pretty boy here was with you.” Tad huffs a chuckle and crosses his arms, eyes studying your features before his expression hardens, “Don’t bring your fucking hook ups here.”

Your jaw sets, smile swept off your lips in a second, “Go back to your table.” Your voice is tight and low, gaze focused on the man’s mocking features.

Blonde tendrils of hair fall in front of Tad’s face as his head hangs with a snort. Pale fingers scratch his goatee for a few seconds, “Look,” His gaze meets yours and he throws his hand in the air haphazardly, “I get it, you got tired of Wade. It was bound to happen, he’s gotten old-”

Your fist connects with his nose before he can finish the sentence. Blood runs from his nostrils and stains the blonde hair above his lip when you grab the front of his jacket, “You fucking deserve that.” Turning, you throw him against the wall next to Bucky, whom watches the situation unfold with an unreadable expression on his face, “Wade is now twice the man you’ll ever be, you dickhead.” You release him with a push, nostrils flaring as you step away.

The bar has gone partially quiet, but when you turn with your gaze hard and jaw set, the usual chatter soon starts once again. Weasel only gives you an exasperated look as you shrug on your backpack and pick up Chip’s box. You mouth a _Thank you_ to which he replies with a shrug and an eye roll.

Blood soaks the toilet paper tucked in Tad’s nostrils as you head down the corridor. Bucky walks quietly in front of you when you turn and give the blonde in the other room the middle finger, rounding the corner that leads to the exit next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lack of interaction with Bucky on this chapter, we'll get more of that in the future! After all, this is a Bucky/Reader fic, innit? Anyway, we back in New York baby and we gonna meet up with some folks that have already been introduced in the story, but also others that haven't *wink wink*  
> Hope y'all enjoyed it, I love your comments and all of you! Thank you so much for the support <3


	15. Chapter 15

The apartment is silent as you unlock and push the door open. You pause for a moment, perhaps out of habit, before reaching blindly with your hand, fingers immediately finding the light switch on the wall and flicking it.

It’s just how you left it: pillows randomly placed on top of the couch, one of the corners of the rug in front of it folded. The dishes you washed in the morning of your departure are long dry, still resting against each other on the rack.

You take a deep breath and step in, trusting Bucky to close the door behind him as you take Chip out of the box. The cat pauses in the familiar surroundings for a few seconds before scampering away to one of his hideouts. You straighten up and glance over your shoulder as you shrug off your backpack, “This is where we’ll be staying. It’s not much but… it’s enough.” The backpack hits the floor and you turn to Bucky, who’s busy surveying his surroundings, eyes ghosting each window and door, “Hum… Does a shower sound good?” His gaze finally settles on yours and he nods.

You guide him through the shower controls, only receiving nods and grunts of acknowledgement in return. It’s going to take a while to get used to his closed off personality, you realize.

Going through your closet in a haste, you manage to find a few of Wade’s forgotten clothing, handing Bucky a t-shirt, sweatpants, and boxers as well as a couple of towels. As you close the bathroom door a massive sigh eases past your nostrils. Your eyes hurt from how tired you are, and as soon as your butt hits the couch cushion, they immediately begin to droop. Chip jumps on your lap, the fluffiness of his fur against your palm calming you, your head resting against the couch.

It only takes a few seconds before you’re out.

 

* * *

 

“Ow!” Wrestling is heard, something hitting the front door harshly, “What the shit?!”

Chip protests loudly and descends to the floor when you jump off the couch abruptly. Your heart beats frantically from the sudden awakening, eyelids still partially stuck together, but your hand flies to your belt nevertheless, fingers grasping the handle of one of your throwing knives. You turn your body in one swift motion, blade leaving your hand to embed on the wood besides Wade’s head.

It’s silent save for the grunts as you blink once, twice, three times, trying to understand the situation on the other side of the couch. Bucky’s got Wade in a headlock, the latter struggling against the arm around his neck. Thankfully Bucky has a hoodie on and a glove on his metal hand you notice, or else you wouldn’t be able to concoct a believable explanation for Wade. Bucky looks at you, his expression stoic as if waiting instructions.

“Uh-” You stammer for a moment, eyes flickering between the two men before they connect with Wade’s, “N-no, Bucky! He’s- I know him, okay?! Let him go!” You nearly shout as you round the couch, coming closer to where they stand.

Wade jumps away as soon as Bucky releases him, a hand rubbing his neck, “Who the fuck is this guy?” He doesn’t notice your hand grabbing his arm, his gaze still on Bucky, who now has moved closer to the kitchenette, though his attention remains focused on you, “And why is he wearing my clothes?” Wade adds, his voice in an offended and partially angry tone.

“Wade. Wade!” His eyes finally meet yours, “It doesn’t matter.” Wade’s head begins to turn once again, but you press two fingers against his cheek, “It doesn’t matter.” You repeat softly. The slight frown of his eyebrows deepens as his eyes survey your face, jumping from bruise to bruise. You both stare at each other for a few seconds and you can feel the tears prick at the corners of your eyes, so you close the distance and bury your head in Wade’s chest, “I missed you.”

It takes a moment, but you finally feel him relax against you, arms cradling your form, “I missed you too, sweetcheeks.” When you pull back, Wade brushes a couple stray hairs away from your forehead, a sad smile tilting his lips before it turns into a grimace, “I’d love for us to continue our moment, but I feel like John Wick over there might attack me if I don’t leave.”

You peek around Wade, finding Bucky in the same stiff position, his damp hair concealing his features partly, “No, don’t. I-I’ll take care of it.” Your gaze returns to Wade and you let a small smile cross your lips before you speak, “Just go to my room, I’ll explain everything.”

Wade pecks your forehead and heads towards your room, taking the route that’s the furthest away from Bucky.

You cross your arms and watch in silence as blue eyes keep fixated on Wade, Bucky’s head following the merc until he’s finally out of sight. The door closes and his gaze snaps to yours. You take a couple steps forward, hand picking up the grocery bag Wade brought from the floor. Opening it, you peek inside before walking closer to Bucky and placing it on top of the counter, “Eat.” You say, controlling your voice to not show how angry you are at the fact that he nearly killed Wade. The bag of McDonald’s crunches as you push it towards him assertively and turn away, walking to your room.

 

* * *

 

“So, Captain America asked _you_ to keep an eye on this guy?”

You nod, eyes flickering to where your fingers play with the sheets below your legs.

“And _who_ is he exactly?”

“I uh…” Pausing, you take a deep breath before shifting your gaze to Wade, “Look Wade, I can’t tell you much.” The merc’s lips part, indignation written all over his face, but you interject quickly, “Because I don’t know much either.”

“That’s even worse!” Wade says, hands being thrown in the air in frustration, “So you brought a random asshole into your house because Captain fucking America told you to?”

“It sounds bad when you say it like that.” Grimacing slightly, you get up from your seat on the bed and pace back and forth for a few seconds. Your arms are crossed when you turn back towards Wade, fingers of a hand picking at your bottom lip, “I just need you to trust me. It’s not like he’s gonna stay for a long time! A week. Two tops.” You say, desperately trying to ease Wade’s thoughts, even though you have no idea how long Bucky’s staying for.

Wade groans, rubbing his face with both hands, “This is such a bad idea…” One of his hands drops, the other still clutching his jaw. He looks up to where you stand with a hopeful look in your eyes, his own gaze softening, “Have I told you how much of a dumbass you are?”

You muffle a chuckle and walk to the other side of the bed, straddling Wade’s waist, “A couple times.” Your arms are around his neck, fingers intertwined, and Wade’s hands settle on your thighs. You lean your forehead against his, your noses touching and breaths fanning each other’s lips.

“You have no idea how worried I was.”

Opening your eyes, you find Wade’s staring back at you, his brow slightly furrowed, “Your phone was dead, and then I saw you on TV with shit exploding around you-“ He interrupts himself and sighs, pulling back to look at your face, “God, please don’t _ever_ do this again.”

“I won’t.” You say softly, hands brushing back his hair, “I’ll have to stick around for awhile, anyway.”

“That’s good though, right?”

The childish excitement in Wade’s eyes, makes your heart ache, but you take a deep breath. Bucky _needs_ you, or else he won’t make it in New York, “Yeah, but… I won’t be able to see you as often, or go to Margaret’s every night. At least not while he’s here.”

Wade’s eyes roll back in his head, a loud groan exiting his mouth, “Oh, are you fucking kidding me?”

“Wade, please.” After you get a sigh and an annoyed nod from the merc, you hug him tightly and get up, heading for the door. Your hand is on the doorknob when you turn back, “Needless to say this stays between the both of us, right?”

Wade waves dismissively, leaning back on both arms, “Yeah, don’t worry. Papa Frank won’t hear it from me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who will Frank hear it from, then? dun dun DUN
> 
> sorry this took so long! these summer holidays were a mess but im back guys  
> more bucky on the next one!


End file.
